When Bravery Abandons Ship
by Once Upon A Time I Died
Summary: She hates him, fears him, might love him. He loves her, can't understand her, might hate her. He's sorry and it's painful and it's them, all them. Tomione.
1. Death

"I'm going to sit here and watch you die."

His eyes betray nothing but unhindered glee and she's confused. She's confused because Voldemort has always gone after Harry, more than anyone else, but yet, he has not gone downstairs to see the boy, to torture him, to kill him. He is here, with her, waiting expectantly, excitedly, to watch her die. To cause her pain. She is the priority and it doesn't make any sense.

"My Lord, we have the boy in the dungeons, we don't need to bother with this mud-"

And their Lord turns to Bellatrix quickly and the woman cowers.

"Has my most loyal servant started a new trend while I was away? Questioning her Lord?"

And Bellatrix shakes her head. Of course not. She would not dare question her wise, wonderful Lord. She would be more than happy to torture the mudblood. More than happy. And the Lord is glad. He needs his most loyal servant to remain so. And she smiles like a clown that plagues a child's nightmares and Hermione feels sick.

Their Lord sits. His feet planted firmly on the ground, his hands on the armrests, elbows bent, as if preparing to pounce, and the look on his face, the sadistic pleasure he will take in watching her be tortured, almost makes Hermione think he really will pounce. Decide to tear her apart with his own hands and his teeth and his feet instead of having her destroyed with the red blasts and the cursed words escaping Bellatrix's wand and mouth.

But he does not pounce.

He sits and he smiles and he watches and he waits.

He sits and he smiles and he watches and he waits as Hermione's mind tries to run away. As her body tries to numb itself against the pain she is feeling. As Bellatrix cackles, and as tears start streaming down Hermione's face, and as bile starts rising in her throat, and as every fiber of her being is yelling at her to end this, to end this pain, this suffering.

But she cannot.

And he does not pounce.

He sits and he smiles and watches and he waits.

And she cries and she yells and she prays for death and she waits.

"Did you believe I would succumb to your will, mudblood? That you would so easily defeat me?"

Her head is spinning and his words leave her drawing blanks, and, as another round of crimson curses descend upon her body, as she hears Dolohov gain permission to take her once she's half mad, she wishes she wasn't just full of blanks, but real, hard bullets instead. A thousand bullets or twenty or one, racing through her mind so this pain would end, so she wouldn't have to feel every nerve in her body stand and be shot down and continue living throughout it all. Her eyes are wide open, just like her mouth, just like the palms of her hands and her legs and her chest as she spasms in the pain and Voldemort is meeting her eyes. His smile is still present, his eyes still gleeful, but he looks tense, his hands are gripping the armrests, his body half out of the chair without him even realizing it.

And then it's over.

And she's being rescued. And she's trying to see through the tears crowding her eyes, trying to raise her wand and run and throw curses, but her muscles ache. She can taste vomit in her mouth and she wants nothing more than to curl in on herself and sob.

She still sees his eyes, clearly in her mind, the tears not daring to interfere with the image of the glowing red orbs that had never seemed as frightening to her as they did now.

She's trying to run, but she's limping.

She's trying to throw curses at the Death Eaters, but her voice is hoarse from yelling through the pain, at the pain.

She's trying to see, trying to get to safety, but the tears are still flowing, the pain is still there.

She can hear Ron yelling her name in between his curses and hexes. She can hear Harry letting spell after spell erupt from himself, his voice strained, but his words not stopping, nevertheless. And she feels weak. She feels weak because she can do no more than shake and try to yell in a whispered, hoarse voice and she can't think straight for long enough to cast a wordless spell. And she doesn't know how long it was that she was tortured for, how long she was at the mercy of Bellatrix's wand, but she feels as if death is coming for her now anyways, all the efforts of her friends rescuing her are useless, because she is too weak. Her vision is spotty and she feels as if she might black out.

A cold- a cold- something. Something cold cages her arm, but her vision is too fuzzy to see what, and then, suddenly, she's being ripped away from that, ripped away to warmth and comfort, and the horrible squeezing of apparition closely follows and she passes out in the suffocating warmth, in the suffocating nearness, in the suffocating echos of pain that had not left her and she feared never would.

* * *

The voices are murmurs. And then they're whispers. And then they're only hushed. And then they're only talking. And then they're only raising their voice and then, quite suddenly, they're yelling, and her head is pounding, and her eyes open to the dim light of evening at Shell Cottage and waves crashing on sand join the voices of her friends. She's suddenly thankful that they can't risk going to the hospital or St. Mungo's, that she didn't have to wake up to bright, white lights and bustling nurses and doctors with clinical hospitality, but rather, to dimmed lamps and chairs the color of honey-stained wood, and her friends, with concerned faces and weak jokes.

And it's all:

"'Mione, are you sure you're okay?"

"You scared us."

"We're glad you're okay."

"We're sorry we took so long to rescue you."

"It was really Dobby that saved us all, but we couldn't save him."

And then, quieter:

"But she couldn't even take a crutacious."

"She blacked out."

"Maybe she needs to be out of the war for a bit, clear her head."

And, finally:

"But did you see when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named touched her?"

"He almost looked human."

And then quiet.

Quiet, and she doesn't know what to say.

Still, and she doesn't know what to do.

But she's okay.

She can breathe. Bill smells like Fleur's perfume.

She can taste. The air is salty, the ocean unrestrained.

She can see. Harry's hands as they check her forehead for a temperature, his eyes as he feels it going down.

She can touch. Ron's hand on hers, his gaze shifting to her mouth.

She can hear. Her friends. Still discussing Voldemort's reaction. Still wondering what it was. Still worried it puts Hermione in danger. Still worried she puts _them_ in danger.

She can feel. Hurt. Hurt that they think she would ever hurt them. Hurt that that monster feels any connection towards her at all. Hurt that her friends do not trust her. Hurt that she is not strong.

But, she can feel no pain, so she can sleep. She can sleep.

* * *

They win the war.

There was no doubt they would. The good ones always win. And they're happy. They're celebrating.

So many scars were left behind, so many souls were taken, but they're happy. They've won. The Wizarding World is safe and they can live normal, happy, calm lives now. They've won. They've won. They've really won.

But they haven't. She hasn't. The golden trio is laughing and they're being congratulated.

"The Boy-Who-Lived continues the tradition!"

"Weasley really is king!"

"But, honestly guys, we all know we only won because of Hermione's big brain."

And then the book, the copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ that Dumbledore had left for Hermione, her copy, opens.

She has been sorting through the things she had kept in her magical bag, and, of course, the book was in there and she supposed it had somehow heard or felt or known something of the celebrations, of the victory, for it opened to a page that wasn't there before, a page that made Hermione's heart stop beating and her breath stop warming the air before her, but chilling it instead.

It turns out, Dean's comment about Hermione, about how vital she was to their victory, was a severe understatement.

* * *

"What do you mean you've got to go? We just won a bloody war! The only thing you've 'got to' do is stay right here and enjoy a butterbeer, or two, or three, oh hell, a whole case!"

And she's shaking her head and she thinks she feels tears prickling at the corners of her eyes again, because it's not over, not for her at least. There's another leg to the journey and the relief she had felt at their victory was short lived, useless, a lie.

She has to go. Because the war is lost if she doesn't. She promises she'll come back, she'll visit, she has a time turner, after all, she's not stuck there. And, gracefully, fluidly, quietly, sadly, it's all tears and hugs between the trio. It's all the 'thank you's and 'I love you's that they didn't have time to say before and won't have time to say anymore.

She's trying to compose herself. Trying to breathe. Trying to wrap her head around what is happening to her. Trying to understand that her war has not been won, it won't be won for years and years. Trying to not let herself feel all the desperation and anxiety that that truth carries for her.

She breathes.

Dumbledore's letter had asked that she leave as soon as possible, that she talk to himself, his past self, as soon as she arrived. He would have already have had him informed of the situation, she need only arrive.

She breathes.

She's scared. She's so scared of having this big responsibility placed on her shoulders, of not having her friends around to help her, of not being a part of the Golden Trio, and being, just, Hermione, for the first time in years. She'll be alone and in charge of ensuring their victory in the war and she has never been more afraid, more worried, more unsure of herself. But she has to go, it is her duty and duty always comes before happiness.

* * *

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no."

Her knees sinking into the wet dirt, the golden dust shining in the frigid darkness, the precious metal, bent and cracked, lying in a circle around it. And, as many spells as she tries, as much as she bloodies her hands from trying to fix the sharp edges together again, it's no use. The time turner is broken, irrevocably and despairingly so. And she is stuck, because she could only use her own time turner to return and because destroying a time turner while in the past means that there is no return, no way to save oneself. She is stuck and desperate and afraid and sad and so, so alone. And she hasn't been alone in years and she hates being alone and she laughs, because she doesn't know what else to do. She is terrified, she is stuck, she is alone, and she is laughing on the lawn of Hogwarts, fifty years in the past, the echo of celebratory butterbeer still present on her tongue, the confetti still stuck in her hair, but it all fifty years away, it all resting on her shoulders.

She gathers all she can of the time turner and its magic into her bloodied fingers, into her ribboned palms, and she stands, and she shakes her hair back and away from her face, and she walks towards the castle, because it is her duty, and duty always comes first.


	2. Bravery

"I always value bravery."

He meant the statement in seriousness, but he expected her to laugh or smile or, at the very least, berate him for such a low sensibility. But, in between her tense shoulders and distasteful expression, it looks as if her body, and she along with it, aren't sure whether to be uncomfortable or annoyed, so settle on an unimpressed cross of the two.

Obviously assuming that he had ended his interaction with her, she continues scribbling the notes she had missed furiously onto her paper, for she had been late, for what just might have been the first time in her life, her quill moving over the page faster than she casts him a sour glance whenever he catches her eye.

But, he was not done.

"However."

And he can almost feel the exasperation rolling off of her in uncontrolled waves.

"I do believe you have hurt yourself."

And she tenses and he almost, _almost_ smirks. She doesn't want to talk about the bruises adorning the right side, the side closest to him, of her neck, so, he'll talk about it. He couldn't possibly stop now that he's started, that would be rude, especially if the lady is in trouble.

"And no amount of bravery can make you invincible, especially if you need help, Hermione."

His smile stretches wide over his face, his mock of concern infuriating her, and, the way he said her name, whispered or murmured, only happened so because he knows it annoys her whenever he employs such a practice over her title. He practically beams at the bushy-haired witch and she practically cracks her quill with how tightly her hand clenches around it.

And then, suddenly, her hand relaxes, her teeth unclench, even her bushy hair seems to calm down. And her voice is light and airy and she looks at him and smiles, almost sweetly, almost sincerely, "What ever do you mean, Tom?"

And he knows she's only calling him Tom because she knows it annoys him, and he's about to point to the bruises adorning her neck, to force her to answer his questions, to get a solution for the mystery that she is, to understand the only thing that he ever hasn't, but, she only brings more mystery, because the bruises are gone, only the pale, creamy skin underneath the collar of her wrinkled white shirt left behind.

She didn't mutter a spell, she didn't take out her wand, and he doesn't understand. Her smile falters for a second, slipping into what it really is, a smirk, a smirk because she has won, if not the war, then the battle. A smirk, because he is still staring at her neck, as if willing the purple marks to bloom back onto the blank slate. A smirk, because his eyes darken as he meets hers, hers, alight with glee.

And she leans in a little closer, letting her quill rest on the page, and whispers to him, "It's a bit rude not to answer a lady's question, wouldn't you agree, _Tom_?"

And her smirk is unrestrained now and he's angry, he can at least admit that to himself, but, more than anything, he's curious. This strange girl and whatever her strange world has led her to become, to feel, to think, to will, has piqued his curiosity, and Tom Riddle has really always been very good about having his curiosity sated.

He's about to retort, with some politely worded jab at her that anyone outside of their dueling duo would deem perfect cordiality, as everyone had come to expect from the two's interactions, but, their professor, Professor Slughorn, has announced that they are to brew felix felicis and they quickly split up the ingredient gathering and the tasks listed to make the potion, their earlier battle forgotten as they have school-related matters to attend to.

"Could you juice the squill bulb? I'll grind up the Occamy eggshell."

He nods. It's no problem at all. And hands her the Occamy eggshell and she hands him the squill bulb and he smiles and she's instantly on edge.

"Of course I'll juice it. We wouldn't want a repeat of the Draught of Living Death, now would we?"

And she smiles and would have swatted his arm if her hands weren't preoccupied, but she laughs.

"Hey! That wasn't my fault!"

"Right, right, whatever the lady says."

And she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but the smile is still present on her face. They cut up the ingredients in relative silence and relative comfort. Tom thinks they would get along just fine if they always had something else at the forefront of their minds.

* * *

Professor Slughorn bounds up to Tom and Hermione as they are leaving, Hermione gathering up her things quickly and clumsily in an effort to get away from Tom as quickly as possible, and Tom amused by the notion, but the Professor halts their progress.

He smiles adoringly, proudly, almost fatherly at Tom, and then he has to turn to Hermione and the same smile simply becomes a stretching of the lips. And, again, her irritation amuses Tom. That special stretching of the lips is a look reserved for Hermione, specifically when Hermione is anywhere near Tom.

"My boy, I hope I will see you at the Slug Club meeting this evening."

And Tom nods, bowing his head at the man that adores him so.

"Yes, of course sir. I wouldn't dream of missing it."

And Slughorn beams as if he had just been presented a box of crystallized pineapple, except, his treat this time is the company of one Tom Riddle and, because he believes the two to be in love, Hermione James. Tom watches Slughorn as he takes a breath before turning to Tom's lovely companion and the stretching of the lips coming over him once again.

"And Miss James, we'd be delighted to have you."

She smiles, her smile as fake and as forced as Slughorn's own.

"Of course, professor."

And the man looks between the two, smiling tightly.

"Professor, if you are done, I do have another class."

And her words, just on the verge of rude, amuse Tom even more and he can see Slughorn is disgruntled by it, but he nods and waves her away.

"Until later, Hermione!" He calls after her and she doesn't turn or speak, only raising her hand in a half wave as she rushes out of the classroom.

"My boy."

The apprehension in his voice, the way Tom sees his hands wring when he turns back around to him, tells him all he needs to know about what kind of a conversation this will be, so he plasters the familiar polite smile on his face while he prepares for the dull words ready to erupt from Slughorn's mouth.

"My boy," He repeats, and Tom's polite smile almost twitches.

"I could introduce you to good girls, from good families. My boy, you deserve at least that."

And a look of practiced interest, vague confusion.

"Whatever do you mean, Professor?"

"It's just that- that James girl isn't a pureblood, is she? No special familial connections? Nothing she can offer you if you were to marry?"

A moment's hesitation, just as he knows would be expected.

"Not that I know of, no, sir."

"My boy, I do not mean to offend you, but I can marry you into a good, prestigious family."

And then the polite smile tenfold. The conscious decision not to tell Slughorn that he is not dating the James girl, because he knows how much she hates the looks Slughorn gives them whenever he sees them together.

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

"Honestly, Tom, there is absolutely no need to ever use an unforgivable curse. The truly unforgivable thing is that you couldn't find suitable and legal replacements for such vile spells in between all your grand knowledge of magic."

Amusement sets off a spark in his mind and it translates into the slightest hint of a smile on his lips, the lightest lick of a flame in his eyes.

"That is not at all true. What could you possibly use to replace, say, the imperius curse?"

She's silent for a moment, a beautiful silent where she lets her lips part to form a tiny gap, where her eyes glaze over and the stars visible from their place atop the astronomy tower shine in them, where she her nose scrunches up the smallest amount.

"Amortentia."

"Amortentia?"

"Amortentia."

"Please, do explain."

And she smiles and he does not know why. Maybe because he is playing along. Maybe because her mind has left thoughts of death, for the very reason she was at the astronomy tower at three in the morning, the very reason he had followed her, was because she had meant to kill herself, and he had meant to stop her, just as he has been doing the entire year.

"Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in the world. It is distinctive-"

"I do not require a textbook definition."

She glares at him, but continues nevertheless.

"Well, amortentia creates a deep infatuation and, say this deep infatuation is between you and I. I could ask you for whatever information I desired, or I could ask you to do whatever it was that I wanted, and you would do it, if only to make me happy and to please me."

He thinks about it for a second and, she's right, of course, but he is Tom Riddle and he cannot possibly be shown up by Hermione James.

"I see your point, but, by those standards, wouldn't felix felicis work much better?"

She stares at him for a second, possibly considering why he's even playing along with her, "How?"

"Well, for one, you wouldn't have to sneak the potion into a drink or force someone else to take it. It's all you. If you wanted someone to do something for you, you would only need to attempt to persuade them and you would undoubtedly be successful."

Silence, gratitude, and then:

"Besides, love couldn't possibly be that strong, Hermione."

"Oh, and I suppose _luck_ is?"

He smiles at her flurry of hair, blowing lightly in the wind coming in through the large glass-less window. He smiles at her furrowed eyebrows, annoyed with the possibility of being wrong. He smiles at her scowling mouth and sparkling eyes, at her sharp tongue and quick wit.

"Hermione, honestly, we both know I'm right. Felix felicis would be a much better substitute for the imperius than amortentia. Just think about it. You can do just about anything when using felix felicis and it'll turn out right, so, if you set yourself to persuading someone, how could they not do your bidding?"

And she's shaking her head, ready to go back to her same argument.

"Tom, _honestly_ , have you never seen someone under the power of amortentia? It's almost scary."

He scoffs.

"Few things are 'scary' and 'love' is definitely not one of them."

She rolls her eyes and the gesture fits in so perfectly with a teenage girl that she finds him smirking when she looks at him again.

"You're awful."

"And, yet, you're still talking to me and not jumping off the side of the tower."

The silence that follows is cold. She wraps her arms around herself and he, for once, doesn't know what to say, what would be the right thing to say, what society dictates he should say. And, for once, it doesn't really matter.

"I always value bravery."

And she scoffs.

"Killing yourself isn't brave, Hermione, it's weak."

And she doesn't say anything.

And he doesn't say anything.

And the air whispers and the stars stare back at them and it's quiet.

He values bravery and killing herself is not a brave thing to do. It's weak. He needs strength. He craves strength. Strength and power are all he searches for, all he wants. She deserves to die if she's not strong enough to handle life.

Yet, he's still here. Still watching her. Still making sure she won't end her life tonight. Still trying to help her, just as he has every three nights for the entirety of the school year.

And, besides all of this, besides the weakness he claims to hate, besides her dislike of him, besides everything and anything, he likes her. Maybe she's not weak at all, maybe she's just been strong for too long.


	3. Flowers

"I brought you flowers."

His eyes are staring into hers and she wants nothing more than to look away. She thinks his hand might be shaking as he holds the blooms up to her. His hair, his suit, his shoes, everything about him is pristine and she doesn't know if it's for the purebloods or for her and, with a bolt that makes her wish for nothing more than to crawl home or into a cave or death, she realizes that the two will soon be one and the same.

And she's all tight smiles and coiled hair in the entrance hall to the Black's mansion. Alphard's arm is around her waist, her cheeks are flushed, artificially and naturally, everything about her sparkling, the dress, her lips, her eyelids. But her eyes are dull, flat, lifeless. Her shining facade breaks with a true look into their golden depths.

She doesn't have a chance to thank Tom for the flowers before Alphard, his drunkenness making him brash, takes the flowers from where they had been gently leaning towards Hermione, dipping slightly in Tom's shaky hands, and swings them over to his side, causing a few petals to scatter and dip onto the polished marble floor in the wake of the harsh movement.

His eyes are alight, his mouth smirking, and Hermione knows it's all an act. She can feel the irritation, the tension in his posture, in how his hand tightens on her waist for a second before minimally relaxing once again. He was nervous, but he had a part of play and Hermione was just so, so sorry.

"Tom, aren't you going to congratulate me?"

And he's smiling widely, in a boyish way, releasing Hermione to wrap his arm around Tom's shoulders and pull the taller, paler, angrier man down, seemingly not giving a thought to appearances or consequences, but just _being_ , instead. And he turns towards Hermione and winks at her, his hair disheveled, a small stain of wine on his white shirt, one of his shoes untied, but it makes her smile, nonetheless. It makes her look towards the ground, it makes a light blush dust her cheeks and Hermione knows she's the perfect image of bashful, the perfect image of embarrassed and happy. It's a practiced image, a portrait they've spent hours on. Because she has to be perfect for this to work.

Then, Alphard turns his dark, expectant eyes back towards Tom his arm loosening around his shoulders, Hermione looking on expectantly at the interaction, praying nothing goes wrong, praying Tom is too busy staring at her to take note of how tense Alphard was, how his left hand shook, how startling the sobriety was in his eyes at that very moment.

Tom seems to take a breath, whether to calm himself or his anger or simply because he did not like the smell of alcohol on Alphard, Hermione did not know, but he did it, nevertheless.

"Congratulations, Alphard," and then, looking right at Hermione, "You've found yourself a lovely, brilliant woman and you are very lucky to be marrying her."

Hermione has to look away, her throat constricting at the things he did not say with his words, but yelled with his eyes. She swallows hard and breathes deep and, when she looks back up, he is still there, still looking at her, and she does the only thing she could think to do: she smiles, politely, amicably, in a way any respectable pureblood wife would smile at any respectable friend of her pureblood husband.

Alphard laughs, too loudly, too closely. Hermione winces and he, her fiance, the man she is to be bound to, releases the man she is afraid of, the man that makes her blood boil, and comes back to her, his hand laying itself gently on her back, he smiles down at her and plants the lightest, gentlest of kisses, even in the roughness and rashness of his state, on her cheek, the thinnest haze of love and lust and who knows what else enveloping his gaze.

"I do like to consider myself fairly lucky."

And he's holding her hand and playing with the ring that's held on it, the simplest family heirloom Alphard could find, but still a big, ostentatious thing.

Hermione chances a glance at Tom and she cannot tell if he is angry or uncomfortable or nervous, but it looks like it's all of the above. He looks as if he cannot decide whether to run away or charge at them. Whether to kiss her or kill her, whether to hate her or love her.

Alphard releases her hand and turns to his friend once again, his boyish grin becoming a vague imitation of the polite smile of a respectable pureblood.

"Please, Riddle, enjoy the party."

And Riddle, Tom, nods, smiles just as politely, a trained expression, and heads into the bunch of purebloods chattering and drinking away.

Alphard and Hermione turn to each other, Hermione's shoulders sagging with relief, her head rising with happiness. And she thinks the words she hasn't said, the words he deserves, the words his tired eyes and trembling hands merit, _thank you, thank you so much_.

He hugs her then and she's not sure if it's for appearances' sake or because he can't hold himself up much longer, but she accepts it anyways, his arms enveloping her in a warmth and safety that were only a shadow of home, but the closest she'd found in this world so far.

But, of course, they are not done playing their roles. Their night is not over, they must still put on a mask and hide themselves, they must still pretend, they must still plaster smiles on their faces and chatter mindlessly and dance and laugh at purist jokes and live. But, most of all, they must not imagine that this is what their world really is, that they should be allowed to live such simple, easy lives is nothing but a fantasy. They have much bigger things to attend to, much bigger duties to respond to.

So, when Alphard's sister approaches Hermione, when she mentions marrying her cousin, Hermione has to shove down her disgust, she has to smile and wave her hand around her perfect primness and reply that, of course, that was the only choice. Who could possibly think of tainting the Black family with anything _but_ a pureblood, relations be damned. And she thought Walburga had almost smiled, had almost approved of her, but Hermione knew her doubts remained. No one was certain that Hermione was a pureblood, after all. _James_ was not a pureblood name, but Alphard had assured them that her family simply stemmed from a smaller, less well-known group of purebloods and, when this was not enough to satisfy his family, a horrible, angry tantrum from the ever-calm Alphard had shut them up, at least for some time. It did not stop Hermione from receiving glares from anyone who held ideas of pureblood supremacy, but, with her good manners, her good posture, her absolute disgust at anything that was not completely _pure_ , she was slowly, so very slowly, winning these people, soon to be her relatives, over. And every second of it killed her.

* * *

He reaches his hand for the hem of her shirt, pulling his fervent lips from hers.

"Hermione."

And she opens her eyes, slowly, hazily, having forgotten that she was not at home, not with Ron, not happy and safe, but in a dark hallway of Hogwarts, fifty years before her shoes would ever step foot in the building, before her eyes would ever set sight on the wall she was currently being held up against by her fiance. By her wonderfully kind, pureblood fiance. By the uncle of the godfather of her best friend. Needless to say, it was a shocking pull back.

But, she doesn't want to think about that. She wants to be lost in the feel of him on her because, if she closes her eyes, if she breathes him in, she can almost imagine that she is where she belongs, that she never had to go back in time, that her war is over.

But it isn't.

And she doesn't want to think about it.

So, she pulls him back to her, she urges his hand to find itself underneath her shirt, to creep up and grope at her breast and she pulls his head back to her and lets her mind go blank and only _feel_ , because she's so very tired of thinking, of worrying, of living.

But, he pulls back again, and opens her eyes again, and she takes in his disheveled hair, his rumpled shirt, his wet lips, his flushed cheeks, his worried eyes.

"Hermione, are you okay?"

And she doesn't know how to respond. No. Not at all. But she can't tell him that, so she nods, a tiny movement, but doesn't say anything, doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to even think about it. She wants to forget, if only for tonight.

"Hermione, if there's something wrong, I'm here for you."

And he's not looking at her, but down at the ground, at the grey stone of the floor and shiny black of his shoes.

"I- I care for you. I want you to be happy."

And he's looking at her again and he just looks so _sad_ and she doesn't want to think about it. She doesn't want to think about how much he's doing for her, how much of his life she's taking, how little she can give him in return.

So, she smiles and she shakes her head and she tries to speak, confidently, to reassure him, but she whispers and her voice cracks and she knows he doesn't buy it, but it doesn't matter, because he's back on her in seconds, the heat of him before her and the frigidity of the wall behind her and she can forget and believe that it's all okay.

It was just when his hand had finished trailing up her thigh, when he was finally reaching the warmest part of her, that she heard the ending of a quiet _click-clack_ of polished shoes, a polite cough into a fist, the words of the last person she wanted to see or think about or hear or know of.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but it is past curfew and public displays of affection are-"

And he stops, realizing, as Alphard rests his forehead against Hermione's, as he lets his fingers drop from her underwear but remain on her thigh, as they both take deep breaths, not taking into mind how incredibly bothered and mussed up they look, who these people are.

Hermione looks up at him, sees his mouth open and close before he composes himself once again. Alphard draws away from her, leaving behind an insignificantly tiny gap and she can't help but suddenly feel unsafe anyways.

It's quiet.

Only a dripping from somewhere down the hall being heard and Hermione doesn't want to look at him, but she has to, so she does.

And he's about to speak, she knows he is, but Alphard steps in, Alphard recovers, and Alphard saves her, like always.

"Riddle, I know you're Head Boy and all, but won't you let my lovely fiance," and he brushed her cheek minutely, looking into her eyes, before turning back to Tom, "Get some head, boy?"

She could swear he almost blushed.

She saw his jaw clench and he shook his head carefully, as if making sure he didn't show too much anger outwardly, carefully working to keep his emotions in check.

"I'm afraid public displays of affection are still against the rules."

And, for some reason, maybe because she saw the chance or because she didn't want Alphard to have to save her again, she spoke.

"Well, if you left us be, it wouldn't exactly be a _public_ display of affection, _Tom_."

And she smiles at his clenched jaw, at his white fists, at the glaciers of his eyes.

She can see Alphard's amusement, but he only kisses her cheek and says, "It's okay, Riddle, I'll go to my dorm now. Please take care of this beautiful young lady for me."

And she laughs lightly and kisses his cheek and he goes, waving and blowing kisses at her and she can sense Tom's irritation and it only makes her happier.

"Do you need me to walk you to your dorm?"

Alphard rounds the corner and away from her view and Tom's words shake her out of the wonderful-ness of her fiance and she stares at his pink lips and white face and shakes her head.

"No, I think I can find my way."

And she begins walking away and, possibly just because she wasn't feeling particularly shitty at that very moment, she brushes against him, smelling like sweat and perfume and Alphard, and whispers.

"Thank you for the flowers."

And she feels his shoulders sag and a breath leave him and she walks away, to her dorm and her bed and smiles.


	4. More

"I am much, much more than a man."

And she laughs, a soft, light thing that is too quiet and too forced and too sad.

They're staring at the Mirror of Erised, him cross-legged and intent, her with her knees drawn up to her face and smiling, oh so sadly.

She had laughed. He is serious, but he smiles anyways.

"Every man, every person has desire. You can't just- you can't just see yourself."

And he raises an eyebrow at her, through the mirror, and she looks away, draws away, through the mirror and through their bonds and through everything, if she could.

"I mean, you can, of course, but such a thing would mean that you are completely happy as you are."

And then she smiles, a real, true smile, or, at least, the closest he had ever seen on her, "And, my dear Tom, I feel as if you have many a desire left in you."

And it's true that he still has desires, of course he does, but he's not going to tell them to her, no matter how much she may continue to pry, no matter how sad she may look, no matter how much he may long to put a true smile on her face. His desires would frighten her, take her further into the arms of Alphard, take her further away from him.

"Well, what do you see for yourself?"

And she almost seems surprised that he asks, but she turns away from him, to look into the mirror, and he sees her eyes soften, her lips curl up gently, her face relax.

"Home. I just see home."

She balls into herself, her arms tightening around her legs, her head dropping to the joints.

He's tempted to ask her to be more specific, to explain exactly what her mind projects, but he doesn't. He doesn't because he knows she would tell him and he knows that such a thing would upset her and, in this moment, he does not want to upset her. He only wants to sit here and look into the mirror and into her and not worry about anything or plan for anything and, for a moment, just be.

But he can never just be.

"Power."

And she looks confused for a second, her head rising from her knees, her eyes squinting a tiny amount as she focuses on him and understanding his words, having given up on understanding _him_ a long time ago.

"I see power."

And she thinks it's ridiculous. He can see it in the way she narrowly avoids rolling her eyes, in the way her hands tighten around her knees, in the way her jaw clenches, in the way she seems to draw away from him, just a bit.

"You don't believe me."

It's not a question, even if it is framed as one, and she knows this, but she answers it anyways.

"I believe you. I just still think it's ridiculous."

And he doesn't say anything and he knows she expected him to.

"What does power even look like? Is there a shining crown on your head? A pile of skulls beneath your feet? A beautiful woman at your side?"

And he smiles at her now, not through the mirror, as they have been all night, not through this added thing where their futures seem to stray from each other so fully and completely.

"Something like that."

And he can almost swear she blushes.

But it's dark.

And it's late.

And he's afraid his own desire to make her blush is creating such an effect in his mind's eye.

So he doesn't comment on it, tries to forget that such an idea ever crossed his mind.

He simply looks at her and enjoys the moment, lives in the moment, and smiles.

* * *

The velvet rope appears unassuming, unthreatening, the easiest possible barrier to get through to the Restricted Section. Tom Riddle, however, knew that assuming that the facade the rope played on was the truth of its condition would be a disastrous mistake.

The simple velvet rope was laced with spells meant to not allow any person without express permission to be in the Restricted Section to enter said area. Tom Riddle, as may be expected, did not have express permission to be in the Restricted Section, so, he had to take some extra measures to ensure his entry.

He had studied the spells that protected the area. He had found ways to counteract them. He had practiced, in the dead of night, and he knew how to do this. Quickly, easily, correctly. It was all planned out and not a single thing went wrong.

He is the heir of Slytherin and, for the first time in his life, he is so very close to power. Unimaginable power, everything he knew he deserved and was destined for.

And the Restricted Section is beautiful. All the knowledge contained in its dark shelves and ancient books enticed him and, with a sudden shock, with a sudden anger and sudden grave disappointment, he realizes that he's thinking of Hermione. Thinking of how much she would like it here, of how beautiful she would find it, of how much she would appreciate all the knowledge, all the banned knowledge at the tip of her fingers. And, with another rush of shock, he realizes how very similar Hermione and the restricted section are. With another rush of anger, he realizes how much work each of them take to know, how rewarding the experience is. With another rush of disappointment, he realizes how much he is not allowed to have either of these things, how very out of his reach all her knowledge and beauty is.

He tells himself that he will not bring her here. That he did all this work for himself, that he is trying to find the power he deserves, that she would only distract him, with her sadness, with her disapproval. No, he would not bring her here. All this knowledge is for himself, of himself. He would not bring her here.

* * *

"Aguamenti."

She's amused and he was certainly not expecting it and is watered over and confused and she's amused. And he's amused and ready for it all. But so is she.

"Confundus. Langlock. Impedimenta."

And she blocks them all or dodges them or catches them in a shield and she remains unscathed.

But, she's a little out of breath, still gleeful, but winded and, before she can get a word out, he's on her again.

"Incarcerous. Levicorpus. Immobulus. Obscuro."

And it's the last one that does her in, placing a blindfold on her eyes and, in her momentary confusion at the darkness suddenly surrounding her, he is able to cast the spell that would help him win the battle.

"Petrificus totalus."

And it would have hit her, he knows it would have, and he would have cast expelliarmus straight away afterwards to take her wand and he would have won.

But the spell never reaches her. The lightest tint of a shield rose around her and Tom doesn't have to look to his right, to where Alphard is dueling with someone else in the class, to know that he is not looking at his dueling partner at the moment, but at his life partner instead. Tom is sure the protection had come from him and he can't bring himself to be angry as she cancels out the obscuro spell and comes at him. The magic flowing from her lips and wand with practiced ease, her feet taking small steps forward and large steps back, stepping to the side and jumping to the other, always ready for whatever he threw at her, always ready to throw more at him.

And then, after what could have been seconds or minutes or hours, their spells meet each other. Their eyes widen, their magic touches, they gasp, and the force of their power meeting so head-on, so completely, sends them both flying back. Their spines lying flat along the stone walls of the classroom and then both bodies reaching the floor together, the owners of said vessels vaguely disoriented, their backs pained, his mind mesmerized, impressed, more now than ever before and he knows that he must have her. Feelings be damned, she is important and powerful and absolutely stunning.

* * *

Her eyes are wide and glittering, the gothic shelves reflecting in her wide orbs.

She reaches for a book, he doubts it matters which one it is, so long as she can feel one of them, feel the power of this banned knowledge beneath her fingertips, have it become a part of her.

And he reaches to take her hand.

"You can't just take whatever book, it might be cursed."

He sees, now, that she has her wand out, her eyebrow raised.

"It's safe. I checked."

Of course she did. She's Hermione James, always prepared, always ready, and his fascination, his admiration, his elation only grows.

She takes the book. It's red. About magical artifacts or some such thing and he is looking at her, trying to figure her out, trying to understand and then he asks the question without thinking much about it, without calculating what her response might be.

"Have you never wanted power?"

She pauses, obviously unsure of how to respond, obviously weighing her options.

"Yes."

He pauses then, making sure to choose his words carefully, and he knew she was doing the same.

"Why does my desire for it… irk you?"

Another pause.

"I only ever wanted power to bring change."

A glance downwards.

"Er, positive change."

She looks at him and her eyes are tired and almost condescending and the idea of her thinking she's better than him infuriates him.

"You, on the other hand."

She laughs.

"You want power for yourself, solely for the sake of being powerful. And, of course, you don't care what it takes to get there, even if it means joining a pureblood elitist group, besides the fact that you, yourself, are not a pureblood."

He wants to kill her for daring to mention that fact, for knowing about it all, but he can't bring himself to reach for his wand, to draw it out.

"I am the heir of Slytherin."

"And he would be gravely disappointed to see what your mother has done to his precious lineage."

His fists clench, itching to hurt her, but he can't. He can't bring himself to do anything to her.

"I will do good."

"Right."

"However, I must gain power first."

"Even if that means killing thousands? And good for who? The purebloods? The only ones left alive after you've finally taken over the ministry?"

She's tipsy. He sees it now. Her eyes gleam, not just in anger, but in a lack of sobriety. Her words run into each other, her steps wobble. She's saying more than she ever would have before.

And, partially because she's stepping closer to him and he does not want to do anything she might regret, and partially to distract her from an argument, and partially because of pure curiosity, he speaks his next words.

"Let's take over the ministry."

She stops, her words coming to a stop, her eyes clouding with confusion for a second before a child-like laughter fills the air.

"Take over the ministry? Whatever for?"

"Oh, come now Hermione. You cannot tell me you are happy with the condition of the wizarding world. The archaic laws? The discriminatory practices? The far-spread ignorance?"

She frowns, her lips forming a pout, her brow furrowing.

"You're trying to distract me."

"And succeeding, I believe."

She looks into his eyes, gold and hazy and angry and sad, always sad, meeting calculating blue, deep blue, unreadable blue.

"You're lucky I've drank some, or else I would never let this go."

He is amused, of course, at her dizzy display of haughtiness, at her ever-present need to argue with him.

"I'm well aware."

And they merely look at each other, deeply and without saying a word and he thinks he might be able to kiss her, to make her love him, and then pushes his chest, throwing him back.

"Well? Did you not have an idea ready to throw at me? Was I meant to do all the work?"

And he almost laughs and the ensuing conversation is a welcome trip to letting go.


	5. Rather

"I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that- to that-"

She almost feels bad for him.

She almost believes the tears gathering at the base of his eyes. She almost believes the stutter in his speech. She almost believes the glaze that comes over the blue of his eyes, like fog rolling in over the sea. She almost believes when they clear and look at her, desperation framed perfectly, in a practiced, rehearsed way. She almost believes. She's afraid of how close she is to it. She's afraid of his practiced ways and all the control they have over her. She's afraid of his fake smile and his true intentions. She's afraid of his pressed shirt and the curl in his hair. She's afraid of his- his- she's afraid of him. The gleam of his eyes, the white of his teeth. The words from his mouth, stolen from a thesaurus or people much higher than him. The fear in Alphard's eyes whenever his name comes up, the way he grips her hand tighter, without meaning to, whenever he walks into the room, and she knows it's not for her sake.

"Alphard asked me to stay with him."

And his eyes are on her in an instant. She's tempted to fall into silence or say far too much, his gaze pushing her on like a tidal wave, but she resists, she stands strong and rides it out.

"For the break only, of course, to get to know his family and spend time with him and whatever else is expected of people about to be married."

And she smiles, without really thinking about it or meaning to, with only the thought of Alphard's smile as she runs her hands through his dark, soft hair running through her mind. With only the thought of his jokes, with the thought of his wit, of his aid, of his love, of hers. And she smiles, without really meaning to. And it's soft and it feels nice to be happy, if only for just a second, before bringing herself back to reality, back to Tom.

"And I don't particularly like his sister."

Tom snorts and she smiles, wide and true.

"I assume you've noticed."

His short burst of joy fades into a mild smile and he gestures for her to continue.

"As such remains true, and as Alphard is often busy, what with being in line to take over his father's position, and as I would very much rather not spend time with his sister or his mother or any member of his family, to be perfectly honest," And she pauses, knowing that she doesn't want to do this, picturing the heartbreaking crestfallen look that would take over Alphard's face when she gave him the news, that this man, this boy that they were working to destroy, would be staying with them in a time that they were meant to enjoy each other's company, to take a step back.

She looks away from the skyline, from where the Great Lake meets the clouds and where the setting sun pulls it all together, to the deep blue of his eyes, deeper than even where the squid resides in the lake.

"So, taking all these things into account, I was wondering if you might want to stay with me- us- at the mansion, I mean."

His eyes widen, his hands, perpetually clenched, release, just a bit, his lips part, an almost unnoticeable amount, just a hint of surprise, all he would allow himself to show before his immaculate control took over once again.

"Only so you wouldn't have to go back to the orphanage. It sounds like a dreadful place and- well, you deserve much more."

He doesn't smile then, he doesn't even look at her. He looks down, at his hands, at his lap, at his thigh brushing hers, at the low light still reaching them from the setting sun, them so high up in the castle, their legs dangling out the side of its stone walls.

She wishes she were dead. If only not to have to spend another second with him, another second forcing herself not to feel, another second yelling at herself that he is evil, cruel, not to be trusted. Another second reminding herself of all the bad he has done and does and will do, if only to avoid holding his hand, touching his cheek, claiming his lips, taking his heart.

He looks at her then, forces himself to smile pleasantly, a true smile too much for either of them to bear, and nods.

"I would be ever-grateful."

And she forces herself to smile back.

* * *

"I can't."

And the room is still for a moment. Globes halting, portraits pausing, wind ceasing.

"It's too much. I- I can't. I can't do this."

"Ms. Granger-"

"James, I use James in this time," And she says it without looking at the professor, her eyes a frenzy around the room, trying to take in everything and anything to avoid letting anything and everything out.

"Yes, of course."

And a pause. Maybe he is waiting for her to reply, but she has no words to say, her mind too full to let anything escape, the ideas bouncing around in her head so quickly that she can't catch any to throw them out of herself and onto Dumbledore.

Perhaps realizing that she is not going to speak or that what she says will not particularly matter or do much of anything to change his argument, Dumbledore continues with his words which pain Hermione so.

"Ms. James, it is very important that you continue this mission."

Her eyes meet his and they are no less worried, her mind no less frenzied, even as his eyes gleam and he offers a gentle smile, a lemon drop, no comfort comes.

"I know it is a lot of pressure. You have not had a second to relax, coming straight from a war, not a moment in between. Your mind has not stopped working since you learned of your magic and I am sure it must be extremely tiring, however-"

And the dreaded halt to his progress, the dreaded switch in direction.

"Ms. James, Hermione, you must continue."

His eyes earnest, the lemon drop that she must eventually accept is old, the outside of it mushy and caramel-like. It does nothing to make her feel better.

"It is the only way for the wizarding world to survive, the fate of it all rests on your shoulders."

That is enough to worry her, to make her breathing come in faster, to make her heart stop for a second and then start again, much too quickly this time.

"And, because you have made it so, on the shoulders of Mr. Black. Stopping now would mean the weight would crush you both, along with any hope of victory."

Of course.

Of course Alphard had to be brought into this. His life would be ruined, his very essence destroyed, all because of her. All because he cared about her and agreed to help. All because he was a good person and she was a terrible, awful human being. And she can't let Alphard be destroyed, not for her, not for _him_. He is only a part of this because of her and she'll be damned if she lets him die because of it.

She bows her head, her nails dig into the palms of her hands so hard, she fears blood might sprout from the crescent-shaped indentations on her pale skin.

"Think of your friends, Ms. James."

She takes a deep breath. And another. And another. But it still feels as if no amount of air in the world could save her.

"You must stop his rise to power. You must continue to get close to him. You must be the force that changes him."

She looks up at Professor Dumbledore, tears crowding her eyes, her lip trembling when she opens her mouth to speak, her hard swallow when she closes her mouth again, and nods. Not because she feels any motivation to do this, not because she wants to, not because anything other than duty. Giving up would be as if she were the one pulling the fated green spell from the tip of Voldemort's wand like a muggle magician pulling handkerchiefs out of his sleeve. A cheap trick that takes far too little effort but affects the audience, nevertheless.

"I'm glad you've come to see reason, Ms. James. Your role in this is vital for the survival of the wizarding world."

* * *

"What?"

"It would only be for the break, Alph-"

"No."

"What?"

"No, I do not want him staying in my home."

She stops for a second, her mind reeling. He never said no. He was always willing to do whatever she thought was best. But, almost immediately afterwards, she was back at talking.

"Why not?"

Her voice angry, her breath catching.

"Because it is my home and I do not want him here."

She struggles for words, her mouth opening and closing a few times with only sputtered sounds coming out.

"B-but-"

"It is my home, Hermione. Do you have any idea how rude it is to invite someone to the home of another person?"

Her eyes are furious, her hands clenched, her chest rising and falling quickly as she struggles not to yell.

He sighs.

"Hermione."

And she does not look at him.

"Hermione?"

How can they possibly stop him if Alphard won't even let her spend time with him? How can they stop him? How can they save the wizarding world? How can she save her friends? How can she validate all of Harry's pain? Ron's? Mrs. Weasley's? George's? Hers?

"Hermione, look at me, please."

And her anger meets his calm. Her sandstorm meets his breeze. Her fury meets his reason.

"I- I know we need to stop him, I know. We've spoken of little else since you told me the truth, but-"

And he takes a breath. And another. And another.

"I just- I'm afraid, Hermione. Every time I walk down a corridor, every time I think of you, every day that I lay in my bed, trying to sleep, all I can see is him. He is in every one of my thoughts, he fills my days and I'm scared. I am so scared that you will die, or that I will, or just about anyone I've ever cared about, because he is always there. I know I am safe in my home and, Hermione, please, I want to feel safe in my home. Grant me this one thing, this one place where I can still feel okay."

And she hesitates, of course she hesitates.

And he grins, wide and lopsided.

"Besides, between the twenty bedrooms and four dens, where would we ever find space for him?"

And she laughs, light and quiet.

And he doesn't care about the fear that Tom inspires in him. He doesn't care about the dread that fills his heart and mind at the sight of him, he doesn't care about how hard it is to breath like a normal person when he's around, or how often and how tightly he's had to grip his arm or his leg or whatever else to avoid hexing him or running away or both. No, he cares about how he makes Hermione feel. About how uncomfortable she is around him, how her eyes constantly shift towards the door whenever he's around, how her hands tremble and her breaths leaves her unsteadily and shakily.

The break is for them to be happy, to relax, to pretend that they don't have to deal with this, not right now because, besides the fact that they are engaged, that they are due to graduate soon, that the fate of the wizarding world and all that is good rests on their shoulders, they are only kids. They are young and afraid and it is all far too much to handle.


	6. Abandonment

"My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was... He didn't like magic, my father…"

They sit over a cliff because she went to visit him and he didn't know where to take her. He couldn't let see the orphanage, he couldn't let her see how small he was there, how little he meant to anyone, he couldn't bear her pity, he couldn't bear meaning any less to her.

So, they walked. He took around the area, through broken streets and run-down shops and, eventually, they took a train to Little Hangleton because it was the only place he had ever been and he wanted to take her away, far away, as far as he could get from the putrid orphanage and Mrs. Cole and all the terrible children and his thin bed and raggedy sheets and his miserable existence there.

So, they had walked to this cliff, this jut of land that overlooked the village, and they had stared out at the area and she had known that he was upset, of course she had known, and she had reached over and took hold of his hand and, beyond all logic and reason, it had made him feel better. The anger that took over whenever he thought about his parents lessened, if only just a little, and her hand, which was just as cold as his and ringed in the itchy wool cuff of her coat, somehow brought warmth to him, comfort, and he cherished the pale skin wrapped around his, cherished her bushy hair and drab clothes, her kind smile and big eyes, her freckles and her intelligence, he cherished her.

"Where is your mother now, Tom?"

He forces his eyes to stray from the brown rooftops of the homes of sleeping people to the brown of her eyes that form the shutters to her sleeping thoughts but, he can't bear to look at her, not when talking about this. He knows anger will flash in his eyes because he can never keep anything from her, no matter how hard he tries, and she will see it and she will know something is wrong and pry or she will know that he is angry and be afraid and he did not want her to be afraid of him, not anymore. There was a time when such a thing was all he desired, to have the strange new girl bow down to him, listen to him, obey him, but now he cherishes everything that he hated before. He needs someone that will challenge him, that will make him think and worry and plan the world; he needs her, of course.

So, he has to look away, back at the rooftops, and smoke starts coming out of a chimney, the first in the village to start their day just as Tom talks about the ending of another's.

"Dead. She passed away during childbirth."

She's quiet for a second and he feels her hand stiffen for no longer than her silence before she asks, "And your father?"

And, something in her voice, in her eyes gives it away because, with a shock he hadn't known in years, with a betrayal, with an anger, with a frustration, with a confusion, with an adoration, he realizes, through her shifted gaze, her tense shoulders, her stiffened hand, her lame attempt at complete nonchalance-

"You know."

She knows what he did and she is utterly horrified and he doesn't understand how she found out, how she could have possible realized the truth, but it does not matter because she knows and he is impressed in a million ways but he has no time to dwell on that.

She nods, short and curt, draws her hand away from his lap, looks out at the village. His eyes stay on her, track and memorize every rise of her chest as she breathes, every strand of hair that shifts with the wisps of air, every shift in her gaze downward, every twitch of her hand.

"Are you afraid?"

And she turns to him and almost smiles, the action filling her eyes with a humor he doesn't understand, but her lips not moving in any direction but the ones needed for her next word.

"Petrified."

And there's no humor in it, but there is still the glowing air of laughter in her eyes anyways and it makes no sense to him and he's not entirely sure it makes any sense to her either, but yet, there it is, alive and alight like the sun shining through the trees of a forest.

"Why did you come see me then, if you're so afraid? So petrified?"

And he feels anger rising in him and it doesn't make any sense. He shouldn't be angry. Tom Riddle is always calm, cool, collected.

But.

But that's not quite true.

He is purposely ignoring the one exception to the rule, the exception he knows quite well. Her.

Hermione James does not allow him to be calm or cool or collected. She inspires rage and joy and distress and hope and everything in between. Tom Riddle cannot possibly be anything near calm, cool and collected when Hermione James is involved.

She lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh and nowhere near either.

"I don't know."

She shakes her head and then looks at him, finally. Her eyes are rimmed in tears and she's still shaking her head, a soft, sad smile on her face.

"You're evil and you scare me, but I came and I don't know why and it doesn't make any sense."

And she shakes her head again and he doesn't know what to say to her. How much does she know? How much does she still have left to find out? Does she hate him? How could she, the perfect, pure she, know everything and _not_ hate him? _How_ does she know any of this? Did Alphard tell her what he knew and then she figure out the rest? Has she been following him? Does he need to kill her? Would he? If he needed to? If he needed to.

He looks at her, her frail, sad form. Her tired eyes, her weak smile, the intellect and wit he knows lay just behind both and he knows

No.

He couldn't.

He couldn't possibly kill her.

The thought of it as he looks at her almost makes him sick.

He barely registers her shallow breath in and out before she's talking again, looking him right in the eyes, and him getting the tiniest sense that she is hiding something from him. Again.

"Tom, you're smart and interesting and beyond strange and a challenge that my mind hasn't been subjected to in a long time."

And she's smiling at him again, the rare smile, her true smile, and he knows that there was some truth in her words, there had to be, and he thinks he might be in love with this strange girl who came from nowhere, with this strange girl who is always so sad, with this strange girl who's never shown anyone anything but kindness but he is sure could kill them all if the desire every struck her.

He is in love with a girl that is engaged and that might hate him and that is completely afraid of him. Tom is leading a blessed life.

And, from the silence of the moment, the seriousness, her eyes suddenly brighten and she turns around, away from him, and towards her bag.

"I almost forgot!"

There is a small box in her hand, wrapped in green paper imprinted with a golden, flowery design and he takes the package from her hand and into his, entirely confused. He looks up at her rosy cheeks and wide smile, her bright eyes and excited words.

"Happy birthday, Tom."

And, again, it doesn't make any sense. He's confused because of the present wrapped neatly and in metallic paper, because of her, wrapped neatly and in a wool coat, and because of the _present_ , wrapped loosely in time and winter and fear.

So, he's confused, too many thoughts running through his head to be able to concentrate on pushing one down and pulling it out, so all he manages to say, dull-ly, dumbly.

"You got me a present."

And it's not quite a question and it's not quite a statement, but something she replies to, nevertheless.

"Of course."

And she's all smiles and the flowery brightness she shows to everyone else and in public and he feels vaguely betrayed. He feels as if he is worth much more than this facade she puts on for everyone else and her showing him this side of her, especially when they're alone, especially when the sun has yet to rise, especially when the world is asleep, is almost offensive. They have shared their lives with each other. He has told her things about himself that he would never dare even think about around anyone else and, even after all of that, he is receiving this fake her. This her that has been carefully crafted to avoid questions, to avoid having to answer to anything or anyone that she does not want to deal with. And, logically, he knows that she is reeling too, trying to gather her thoughts after what they had just said to each other, trying to cope with the new, absolute, destroying layer to their already complex relationship, their already difficult existences, but it does not mean that he is not offended, not upset, not saddened.

But, he cannot bring this up to her, he does not want to have to explain himself, his thoughts, his feelings, for even that would be a step down from what they've always known. They've never had to explain what they're thinking or feeling to each other, it's always been understood and known and unspoken, silent and beautiful and always so completely right. And he does not want to explain himself, he does not want to make it all be completely wrong and grotesque and so very unlike them.

So, he doesn't.

He fumbles with the package and fumbles with his words, a quick and quiet 'thank you' and he does not open the package. It sits between them as they look out at the village, the sun beginning to rise now, making the metallic paper shine and dulling the spark of conversation and understanding between the duo. They sit. Mutely. Resolutely.

She clears her throat and turns to him, smiling softly, ever so falsely.

"I hope you like it. I had to reserve it a very long time in advance and, even then, it was almost shipped off to the first rich bloke who walked through the door, flaunting his bag full of galleons and-"

"We don't have to do this."

And her face falls quickly from the mounting anger and frustration of her story, to his, to the face he knows so well and craves so much. The broken girl he fears because he might love her and the very thought frightens him nearly as much as death does, but there is no professor he can sweet talk or book he can read or ritual he can perform to save him from this mortal malady.

She looks away again, looks down, smiles.

"But it does feel a bit normal, doesn't it? As if there weren't bad things happening or any pressures on your shoulders? As if," she stops. She takes a breath, "As if, it were really this simple, as if the biggest worry in our lives was whether or not our friend would like the birthday present we got them."

Now, he smiles.

"We're friends?"

And she laughs.

"Of course we're friends! Do you think I would have followed you to the middle of God-knows-where if we weren't?"

It's not a sobering question, but it inspires a sobering thought, "Even after everything?"

And he doesn't look at her to say this, but, out of the corner of his eye, he sees that when she turns to him, the smile is still present on her face.

"Do I really have a choice?"


	7. Power

"There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it."

She snorts because it sounds rehearsed and memorized.

He doesn't laugh this time.

Her snort trips into a quiet sort of laughter, falls into a smile, jumps into complete silence. Complete silence between these two people who were never meant to meet in this way, whose interactions in this world, in this time, are a thing of magic. A thing that, in a logical world, between normal people, embedded in ordinary circumstances, would have never happened. Their interactions with each other, how they talk together, how they see together, how they breathe together, how they live together, are impossible, untrue, unbelievable, fantastical, wonderful, a dream-like wonder that Hermione tries to convince herself is a golden opportunity for change but can barely grasp the pain behind the fact that it's happening at all. She floats through this dream-like wonder, constantly forcing herself to see the reality of it all and pushing herself to not let herself succumb to the pain, to be strong, if not for her or the fate of the wizarding world, then for Harry, for Ron, for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, for anyone and everyone that has lost, for anyone and everyone that will never have to feel such a pain if she succeeds.

She must be strong, must be brave. And she is, but only because she tries so, so very hard.

Today, they went to the library. A muggle library, the very idea of which Tom had turned his nose up at, but Hermione had rolled her eyes, this small negative sentiment being the least of her problems but hitting much harder than it should have, and pulled him along.

He visited her this time. She assumed it had been a long, tedious journey without the aid of magic, but she didn't hear a complaint out of him.

After the library, she had proceeded to drag him out to an unused stone building that was falling apart at the very edge of the Blacks' property. Green vines held pieces of the wall together, the blue sky was clearly visible in areas where the roof had fallen in, the pieces that had hidden the pale blue jewel now laying on the dusty, dirty floor, as forgotten and abandoned as the structure itself.

"I come here when I need a second away from," she had smiled, "Well, from _them_."

And he had nodded. She knew he didn't see what was so special about it, but it didn't matter. She knew he would stay here with her regardless, maybe she could even make him see what made it so special, make him understand this small thing that had become such a regular part of her life in her time at the Black mansion.

Maybe she could make him understand much more than just that.

So, they had sat and read and it was quiet and peaceful, with sunlight streaming in, the shouts of Walburga too far to hear, the chirps of the small birds fluttering from tree to tree around the run-down structure just close enough to be pleasing and just far enough to not heighten Hermione's oncoming headache, her peaceful stay with Alphard so brutally interrupted by Tom's completely unexpected and planned visit.

The pair read together quite often and, as remained true for this session, it ended in a bout of arguing as they shared ideas from their respective works and, as was to be expected, had largely differing opinions on the texts, on the theories and issues shared in the works, on the authors of the literature, on the real-world applications, on the teachings of it, on the learners of it, on their peers, on their professors, on themselves, on each other.

So, that was how they had reached this point, how they had argued about good and evil and the forces that commanded these powers and how he had sprouted his ridiculous belief and how a small mob of tiny birds had been frightened away by Hermione's snort and how they had found themselves in silence, awkward and all-consuming after his words, and how he had spoken without turning to her, preferring to look at the veins of the green leaves invading the stone of the broken walls and how she had hoped to see the liquid passing through his green veins invade the broken walls and the scarred skin of her broken body.

"Do you hate me?"

And she thinks of Harry, of Ron, of Fred, of Sirius, of George, of Professor Lupin, of Tonks, of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, of Hagrid, of Neville, of Luna, of, of, of

And it's all far too much. More than she wants to think about, more than she wants to remember, but now it's all bouncing off the walls of her mind, hitting her skull with such an intensity that it makes her dizzy and she thinks she might vomit. Her hatred for him boils underneath her skin, the faces of all the people who have been lost and who have lost flashing before her eyes and herself steaming with anger, with sadness, with hatred, the tears nearly streaming down her face and she's not sure if they would come out as liquid or steam.

And she knows, within her she knows that she hates him. As he avoids her eyes, pretends to look forward and watches her out of the corner of his eyes, as he keeps his hands calm on the book, and she knows he's working to keep himself so incredibly still, that everything he does is calculated, thought out, and she hates him all the more.

But she cannot say that. She cannot let him know about any of that, she cannot let him know about anything near the truth or near her heart for she knows he would use it against her.

So, she doesn't.

She smiles and she's sure he can tell it's a fake and she can't bring herself to care anywhere near as much as she should.

She shakes her head and all the faces, the dead bodies, the pain, the tears, stop moving around in her head. It's all still and one, solitary word glides through the labyrinth of her mind, a mere whisper after everything that had just been yelling at her.

 _Liar._

* * *

"How did it go?"

Whatever he had been reading, writing, annotating is abandoned, pushed to the side as soon as she steps into the room.

She takes a second to gather her thoughts, them still going back to Tom, to dropping him off at the train station, to the quiet that had followed them, the faked smiles, the forced nonchalance. She wonders if this is how it'll always be for them and she worries because she cannot possibly destroy him like this, not if he doesn't trust her, care for her. And she knows she should have worried much more about her fake smile, she knows it, and she cares so very deeply now, now that's it's too late to do anything about it. Isn't that how it always goes?

But he must still care. He must understand.

And now she's looking for understanding in that crazed monster.

Well, he isn't a crazed monster yet.

But he has already killed his father, made a horcrux, ruined Hagrid's life, without a second thought.

But, he isn't a crazed monster yet.

She desperately wants to believe herself and it's hurting her to not forget, to not separate Voldemort from Tom, to not separate the pain of everyone she has ever known with the joy she feels battling him, wit against wit, wand against wand, body against body. And she desperately wants to believe, but she cannot possibly let herself forget, she would be worse than him if she did.

"Hermione?"

And he's standing now, this poor man whose life she's altered, bent, ruined, destroyed.

She draws into herself as he gets nearer and shakes her head. His pain is palpable, but she can't bear his touch, not right now, not when she's thinking of his nephew, who looks so much like him, acts so much like him, who feels the same pain, makes the same jokes, was ruined so utterly and completely because of the same frightful creature that she now talks to with ease, that she thinks might care for her, that she can laugh with so easily, and her self-hatred suddenly reaches new heights.

She feels like vomiting, like emptying out her entire being. Her lungs so she can no longer breathe, her heart so she can no longer feel, her brain so she can no longer think, her soul so she can no longer live.

But, as always, dying is not an option. Duty must come first, duty always comes first.

He stands a few feet away, awkwardly, his feet clothed only in socks, his hair disheveled, his eyes betraying an exhaustion that he would never speak to her about, lest he worry her more than she need be, lest he bring her more stress. So, he keeps all the pain to himself, works in her best interests, and she thinks she might hate him for his kindness, hate him for his consideration, for his love and sacrifices.

And he calls her name again, ignoring any pain he might feel in his quest to help her, to rescue the damsel, to be her savior, never thinking that he might need one, that he doesn't have to be one and she hates him, her heart drawing out the hurt of it all.

She wants to say that she's fine, that it didn't affect her so much, that he doesn't have to worry, doesn't have to pile her own stress and anxiety on top of his own, she's fine and she can handle it, she's fine and is he? She's fine and it's okay. But it's not. And she can't lie to him, she can never lie to him, not after everything they've done for each other, are doing for each other, will do for each other. She cannot lie to his being who cares so much about a world he'll never know, a world he's never seen.

She doesn't say a word but she looks down and a small crystal drops from her eye and a wet mark stains the carpet beneath her feet. Sparkling rivers quickly engrave themselves on her cheeks and a coldness she hadn't realized had followed her since Tom first knocked on the door suddenly leaves her and Alphard's familiar scent envelops her and the soft material of his shirt is around her and he's everywhere and she's not okay, not okay at all.

She's sorry.

She's so sorry he has to help. She's so sorry he has to marry her. She's so sorry that all of this has happened to him, and will continue to happen to him, because of her, everything because of her. She's so sorry.

And it's fine. It's okay. He's sorry she can't go home. He's sorry this pressure was put on her. He's sorry she can't rest, can't possibly think of stopping until all of this is solved, fixed, completely erased. He's sorry she can't go home. He's sorry he can't save her. He's sorry that she's sorry. It's fine. It's okay. He's sorry she's been forced into this sad existence. He's sorry some old man thought this was the only solution.

He's sorry she hasn't been able to go home in years, he's sorry she may never be able to go home. He's so sorry.

It's fine.

It's okay.

He wants to be her new home, to give her all the warmth and comfort that feels so far away, so distant, so old and untrue.

She wants to let him, wants to believe that it can be real, that she can be happy here, complete her mission and not want to die throughout every second of it.

But

There's always a but.


	8. Until

"It won't come until it's called."

He whispers it in her ear and he's not sure if she shivers out of disgust or fear or love, but it happens nevertheless, his breath pulling a wave through her like the moon to the ocean.

Goosebumps mark her skin, her eyes still closed, his hands so very close to her, but never touching her, never marring her delicate, risen skin with his toxicity.

She takes a deep breath, he stands behind her but he sees her shoulders rise, hears the whistled inhale, the whispery exhale. Her shoulders are no less tense after the breath than before, but she claims she's ready. Her nod is slow and careful, and he wouldn't dare question her, even though he fears she might not be ready for what comes next and he's tempted to reassure her that she'll be fine, that it'll all be fine. They stand in the Chamber of Secrets and he feels very worried, as if he should be protecting her, taking her away. His hands hover above her shoulders before he brings them back to himself. He takes a deep breath and he's forced to acknowledge that he is nervous, worried, afraid. He should be taking her away.

"Hermione, are you sure?"

His voice sounds sincere and it surprises even him.

He sees her shoulders rise with another breath.

"I trust you."

She should, he supposes. After all, he certainly isn't the one that asked her if she wanted to see the basilisk in his Chamber of Secrets. He isn't the one that pushed the idea, that assured him it would be fine.

"That might not be the wisest choice."

She laughs, lightly and nervously, but she laughs, the tinkling sound of a fairy's wings beating hard and fast as they try to get away but remain trapped.

He steps away from her. Takes another deep breath, and looks out towards the stone he knew the serpent would come from. He calls it to him and he's hardly finished speaking in the distinct tongue before the basilisk comes barreling out, the walls almost shaking with the brunt force and speed of it.

It charges at Hermione, who is trembling, who has since reached to take a hold of Tom's wrist and holds it tightly in her hand. Her breath comes in short pants and her eyes are scrunched closed tightly.

But the basilisk has almost reached her and his words stumble over themselves as they order it to stop, quickly, desperately.

And the creature halts its progress just before it attacks her, just before it reaches her, just before it destroys her, and his disbelief is almost palpable. He longs to pull his sleeve from her petrified claws, from her dirty fingers, but his surprise keeps him from moving.

It is a thing that had crossed his mind, with a name like _James_ , it was impossible that it wouldn't have crossed his mind, but he had never truly believed it to be true. She was marrying into the Black family, after all, they must check.

He can't believe it. He doesn't want to believe it. But the proof is there. In the fury of the basilisk, in her name, in her hidden world and secretive life.

"You're a mudblood."

He doesn't remember feeling his mouth move, doesn't remember issuing a command for words to sprout from him, but he hears his voice as if coming from some disembodied object. The words, his words are there, but they could not have possibly come from him. He is in control, after all. He would know if he had spoken. But, her voice replies to him, surprised, of course, but not because this information was anything new to her and certainly not because his words had come from somewhere else. He felt ill.

"You're not killing me."

Her words are almost a question and a new surprise bursts with every syllable. Her hands are still shaking and clenched, her shoulders still tense, her eyes still scrunched closed, everything about her screaming fear, but her voice, her words, registering some kind of bizarre hope and disbelief.

And he's not killing her. It makes about as much sense to her as it does to him, which is a figure very near none. As has happened many times in the past, he considers killing her, considers letting the basilisk do what it was meant to and end the mudblood's life. And, again, he can't find it in himself to kill her. To rid the world of her fantastical existence would be a crime.

But

She is a mudblood.

There is no doubt about that now and he does not know what to do, how to feel, what to think. He draws within himself, scrapes the web of veins and cells off the edges of himself, pans them, searching for hatred, trying desperately to create some kind of ill feeling towards her, wanting to hate her, but he finds nothing. In the whole of himself, there is no part that hates her, no part that wishes to kill her. Even with this new information, which, he thinks to himself, he had really known all along, he does not hate her. He cannot find an ounce of hatred within himself and it's frustrating and anger-inducing and terrible and frightening and completely defeating.

His head drops, his breath slows, his fists relax.

"I am not evil."

And he's not.

But he's powerful. She doesn't have power here and she's choosing to trust him instead. She's let her life drop into his hands. She trusted him to save her or else wanted to die. Neither thought soothes his nausea.

If she trusts him, she must feel something about him. Something. _Anything_. She must. She couldn't possibly suggest this and believe that he would save her without feeling something for him, without believing in whatever good might exist within him.

Or else she was testing him and so he should be angry or

Or she wanted to die.

And he doesn't know how to feel about that, what to say to that.

She let her life fall into his hands and he thought she hated him. But she couldn't possibly. She just couldn't.

He's so lost in his own thoughts that, when she speaks, her voice trembling, cracking on her only syllable as she calls his name, it's as if hearing her from the bottom of the ocean. She's distant and he must force himself to swim up to reach her.

The basilisk is far too close to her. In his time spent thinking, it inched forward. Its head so close to hers, almost as if it were smelling her. Hermione's eyes are scrunched closed so tightly it'd be a wonder to see her ever open them again.

The basilisk inches forward again, its mouth trembling slightly, almost as if it was aching to taste her and her voice rings again, afraid and nervous and no doubt worrying that she made a mistake in trusting him. And maybe she had.

She hadn't.

He wills his mouth to move, his words to come, but the image of these magnificent creatures interacting, and each action so opposed to the continuance of the others', was a sight to see, a wonder that he felt so very honored to have the privilege to witness. And he would like to continue watching it.

But, she hadn't made a mistake in trusting him. She hadn't.

He orders the beast away and it's upset. This isn't the first time he's done this and Tom knows that the basilisk is upset by it every time, but, as he sees the beast glance behind him, sees it calculating how quickly it can get away, he knows that he has made a mistake. The beast has had enough and it is upset and Tom does not have a plan for how to handle this, how to control the beast. He considers cursing it, but he needs it and it's a beautiful creature and he hates Hermione for making him care more about her than power. He hates her for it but he cannot possibly hate her. If this is love, then it is terribly confusing and he does not want anything to do with it.

It is expected but it happens so very quickly that Tom does not have time to prepare, to think of a solution, to be ready.

The beast quickly sidesteps Hermione and barrels its way towards Tom, changing direction faster than Tom could move out of the way, and escaping up the way Tom and Hermione had come down.

He is angry and worried and he glances at Hermione quickly, her fists still clenched, her eyes still shut, her shoulders still shaking, and he runs after the basilisk, runs after this beast that he had always admired so. This beast that he now thinks he might be willing to kill if it dared upset her.

She would hate him if something happened, if it killed or hurt anyone. She would hate him and he couldn't possibly deal with her hating him, not now, not ever, it was unthinkable, undesirable, incomprehensible, a thought that he would prefer to keep far away and unbeknown to himself, foreign, alien. The possibility was so very close and he didn't like it, didn't want it.

She would hate him if something happened.

She would hate him, so he has to run after the beast, has to catch it, has to tame it, has to stop it, to make sure it doesn't hurt anyone for it would surely hurt her and her hurt would pain him more than anything else. The realization of this makes him sick, the fact that his being is so entirely dependent on her and her happiness makes him sick, but it is not something he can simply send away, crucio and obliviate and know that it'll be okay. It is not something he knows how to control; it is not something he _can_ control and it makes him sick. She is a disease that he craves and cannot rid himself of and he does not know what to do, how to handle it, how to live with such a thing. But, he must learn, he must learn because it is not going away anytime soon. Not while she is still so intelligent, so powerful, so witty and kind and secretive and mysterious and a puzzle he longs to solve that won't lend itself to his mind.

* * *

It kills the mudblood girl. Mary or Murray or Myrtle or something. He gets the basilisk back, he reaches it, but not in time, not before it reaches her, not before it kills the girl, not before it spreads a panic through the school, not before a fear grips Hermione's heart. A fear that he sees every time she avoids his eyes, every time she jumps at the sound of his voice, every time she walks the other way or makes sure to sit at a crowded table in the library where there is never enough room for him.

She is afraid of him and the consequences that it might bring frighten him. He can't talk to her, look at her, have her see reason, convince him of his good intentions. He didn't mean for it to kill anyone; he didn't mean for anything to happen. He was willing to show her this part of himself, this part of his life that he had never shown to anyone else and, instead of strengthening whatever their relationship was, it may have destroyed it, it may have ruined whatever she felt for him, of him, with him.

He is sorry. Not for the basilisk's action or the girl's death or the school's panic, but for himself, for his own pain at not being able to speak to her anymore. He is sorry because he cares for her too much, far more than he ever meant to care for anyone and it makes him sad and sick and suffer and he hates it more than he hopes she could ever hate him.


	9. Brilliant

"Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student-"

"So you blamed Hagrid?"

And he looks at her as if she is stupid for asking the same question again, but her mind is still trying to grasp this. Trying to grasp the fact that she had been here when Hagrid's life was ruined, when his chance for greatness and success had been brutally taken from him, that she had stood by, with closed eyes and shaking hands, and done nothing.

"Yes, I thought I had made that quite clear by now."

"But, but-"

The words aren't coming to her fast enough and air is leaving her faster than she would like it to and she sputters, her words angry and confused and hurt, these emotions casting a shadow over any calm, logical thought.

"Hagrid is a good person."

The sentence is so simple and so small in comparison to everything that Hagrid is and will be, but it's all she can manage, the only words her mind would let her string together and release in her fury.

His eyebrows furrow, just the tiniest amount, and he seems perturbed that she cares, confused as to where these feelings originated from, how deeply they run.

"I don't think I've ever heard you mention him before…"

And he's speaking slowly, looking away from her but locking her in his gaze out of the corner of his eye and his forced nonchalance angers her. He's trying to analyze her, to figure her out, to trick her into revealing more than she wants to or can say and it makes her angry.

"Don't you dare play that on me, Tom Riddle, don't stand there and try to calculate me. I don't need to be fucking someone to care that their life may have just been ruined when they have done nothing wrong. Besides, you shouldn't concern yourself with who I associate myself with. We are not a couple, it'd be a stretch to even call us friends, so I don't need a single ounce of whatever messed up show of dominance you're trying to perform, okay?"

He's detached, not looking at her and trying hard not to look at his hands, but instead at the bleak grey stone walls of the room they are in, because even when he is being chastised or when he's embarrassed or wrong, he must look strong and proud and important. So, his chin is held high and he looks as dashing as ever, but his hands are inching towards each other, his shoulders threatening to slump, his eyes falling from the wall to the floor and his jaw twitching and tense.

"Right, sorry, I forgot, to do that you'd have to care about me and Tom Riddle doesn't fucking care and he doesn't fucking feel, he just acts, he thinks and he acts and he ruins people and things and lives and he doesn't care."

He shakes his head and she can see the effort it's taking him to keep his mouth closed.

"What is it, Tom?"

If words could cut, Tom would be writhing on the floor, but he just looks away and breathes in deeply as he shakes his head instead, ever collected.

"Is it just some other pretentious thing about how useless emotions are? About how much better than them you are? About how you are going to be immortal? About how you are the most powerful wizard to have ever lived, far too powerful and great for something as human and small as _feelings_?"

He rolls his eyes and sighs, playing on a practiced image of nonchalance once again, but it's forced, hesitant, a move that still speaks to the lightning thoughts moving in his head of whether or not this was the correct next play, of whether this will let him out of this situation faster and a winner.

"You're being ridiculous."

The breath she lets out is real and quick and angry.

"I'm being ridiculous? Have I said a single lie? Do you not believe yourself better than us mere humans with emotions? Do you not believe that you will live forever? Are you not just trying to maintain some kind of sick dominance over everyone? Over me?"

She can see his façade crumbling; can pinpoint the exact moment he caves and allows the anger to seep into his eyes, but he is still Tom and he is still calm, an ability that left her long ago perhaps the moment she met him.

"I am not trying to dominate you, Hermione. I think your ego has grown considerably since we met if you think I would go through such trouble just to best you. I am powerful on my own and I have no reason to prove it to you."

Each word he spoke inched his body closer to hers and by the time he is done, the pair are mere inches apart, their eyes ablaze in each other's heat and his confidence rises at her continued display of emotion, he has the audacity to smirk.

"Besides, Hermione, he kept a beast in the castle, it was my job as a prefect to turn him in."

And his perfectly condescending tone makes her want to slap him.

"A perfectly tame creature, while you released a killing machine into the population!"

His words are mumbled, quiet, almost ashamed, almost.

"I got it back."

"Not exactly in bloody time."

And she knows he's not ashamed because someone died, but because he was powerless to control the creature. He's embarrassed, but he does not care about that girl, he cares that the beast didn't listen, that he let himself be distracted, so he has to retaliate with anger and accusations.

"Why do you care so much? You've gone on and on accusing me of this and that and somehow I don't buy that you care just because he's a person. You know what I have done, you know what I did to my father, my grandfather, my uncle, but you did not react like this about them. So, Hermione, I don't buy it. Tell me, why do you care so much?"

His perfect façade is cracked, just a little. He is annoyed. Annoyed that she is chastising him, annoyed that he has upset her, annoyed that she cares so much about that half-breed creature. He is annoyed and the distaste shows clearly on his face, the perfect calm he had been fighting so hard to regain finally given up as a lost cause. That seemed to happen quite often around her.

She turns to him, rage and sadness alive in her eyes.

"How do you not care? Hagrid did nothing wrong, you and I both know it, yet, you blamed him anyways. What did you have against him? You killed someone, Tom Riddle. A perfectly innocent girl. And, instead of feeling remorse, of trying to make amends, you go ahead and pin the blame on someone else, have them expelled, their magic stripped. Can you imagine your life without magic, Tom? Because I certainly can't and I find horrendous that you would condemn someone else, a man that you have not spoken two words to, to live such a life. And for what? To maintain your quest for immortality? You're a smart boy, Tom, I know you could have found some other way to get out of this, some other excuse to make that would still have let you off as the innocent prefect. But, you blamed Hagrid instead. Why? Why? I just want to know why."

She can feel her hair practically crackling with her energy, with her anger and she feels no need to control, to contain it, to hide what she is feeling. She is angry and upset and he should know it. She's spent too long trying to hide, too long trying not to feel. She was meant to be changing him, she was meant to stop this entire thing from happening, but she hasn't done anything to change the course of time. He's still out, killing and ruining and destroying and nothing she has done or can do will change that. She has made no change. She has not accomplished her mission and she's tempted to give up, to give in, to let herself fail.

But she can't. There are things and people bigger and better than herself that are at stake here, that are waiting for her to do what she is meant to do. But she can't let herself keep getting distracted, keep letting pity and fear get in the way of everything.

And he still hasn't answered her. He's still looking at the ground, still desperately annoyed, vaguely confused.

"Is it because he's a half-breed?"

And Tom shakes his head, after just a second of hesitation.

"If not prejudice, then what? I'd really like to know."

He looks away from her, looks at the floor and she can see his gaze wants to turn towards her or to the door and run. But, he stays put. Hermione almost wishes he would run away, disappear and then she would never have to see him again, never have to deal with him, never again have to force her life to revolve around him.

But, she knows she would have to find him, have to continue her mission. Her life is not her own. It belongs to a cause and to a man.

"You smile at him."

She, so lost in her own thoughts, draws blanks for a second after Tom speaks.

"I- what?"

"You smile at him, you always smile at him. Even before, when you seemed so lost and it seemed that a hatred for me consumed you, even when you're upset or angry, you smile at him."

"You ruined him because… you were jealous?"

Her voice is incredulous, maybe more angry than before, her shoulders tensing, her breaths coming in and out quickly, quicker than they should, quicker than they come to a calm, collected person, as she is meant to be.

He does not reply but the words he could say ring her head.

 _I couldn't exactly ruin Alphard._

"I- I need to go."

Her breaths have brought her no air, no calm, no joy. She feels faint, her vision is spotting.

"I- bye, Tom."

"Wait, Hermione, you can't just-"

* * *

"I don't know what to do! It's not helping! Everything I do- he's going down the same path, Alphard! I- I can't stop this! I'm not smart or powerful or strong. I can't do anything. I'm not helping. I can't save the world, that was always Harry's job. It was always Harry's job. I'm just- I'm just me, nothing special, nothing important."

She's sobbing, tears streaking down her red face, her eyes glistening with more tears ready to fall, her voice shaking and cracking and miserable.

And he kisses her.

They're alone and he kisses her. Not to trick Tom, not to convince his parents, not to show his friends the validity of their relationship, but just for them. He kisses her and she kisses him back, desperately, as if she was drowning and he was air.

She kisses him desperately because she is desperate and afraid and sad but

But she's not alone.

She's not alone.

She's not alone.

Alphard is with her, Alphard will always be with her. Alphard loves her.

She's not alone and she will not fail. They just need to make a new plan, a better plan. They can do it. She's not alone.

They can't let him rise to power. They must save the world, not only for the world, but for themselves, for their love, for their sacrifices. They deserve a safe world. Their plan is foolproof. They will win, together. She's not alone.

She's happy, she's smiling. She looks at him, at this dark haired, handsome man who should have been so happy, who's smiling at her now, who kisses the tip of her nose, and she wants to love him. She wants to be able to look at him and feel nothing but the warmth and joy of such a powerful emotion filling her. But she cannot look at him without seeing Sirius, without seeing Harry and Voldemort, without seeing death. And she's sad again, but she's not alone. She's not alone.


	10. Charm

"I've always been able to charm the people I need."

He thinks she would have laughed.

Before.

She always laughed when he said something like that.

Before.

She called it pretentious and ridiculous.

Before.

Before.

Before.

But she didn't anymore. She was serious in her response and the change confused him, pained him, worried him. She worried him. Her reactions and actions and words worried him and it was a painful thing to worry, to care, especially when such thoughts and emotions had never before existed in one's mind and one's heart.

"And you need me?"

And the pull in his chest tells him he does but he doesn't want to say that, especially not to her, so he doesn't say anything instead. He doesn't say anything for a while and neither does she and he knows she'd usually be itching to, her hands shaking with the force of her restrained words, her tongue begging to move, her mind warning her that it would not help her, that it would only damage her situation, whatever she's working towards, but her heart pushing for it regardless, a wild and impulsive move that could only belong to her, but not today. Today she merely sits, not beside him, not anymore, just far enough away to still be able to see if his face twitches, if he looks away, if he smirks or frowns or lets anything slip. He knows her too well. He's spent too long memorizing what she does, learning how she thinks, and it frustrates him to realize that still, after all the time and effort he's put in, he still knows so little about her. He knows her favorite color, her favorite subject, could recognize the sound of her laughter a mile away, could make her produce such sound if he so wished with relative ease, but he knows nothing of where she came from, of what her plans are for her future, of what and how she loves. Of what it would be like to be loved by her. To love her in secret and in public and with fervor and with laughter. And with power and prestige and all the life it brings. He knows nothing and wishes he felt nothing and wishes he knew everything but neither wish comes true, his is granted no wishes instead of three and he is left with a fee of worry and of confusion and, more and more often now and more and more often with her, of pain. And so, he wants to know, to understand, but she is the one thing that is banned from his understanding, from his knowing, from his controlling.

"You confuse me."

She takes only a second to respond, seemingly not giving the response any thought, but he takes in her tilted head, her minimally widened eyes, and he knows she wants to understand too. Her responses are as calculated as his own, her words only sounding of a buried hesitancy.

"How so?"

She does not ask about how this relates to what he had said earlier, about how her confusing him might be tied to him needing her, but he knows she's curious, her head is inclined towards him, just the tiniest bit, hinting at her interest and curiosity, pushing at the tenseness in his body, at the rubber band she always stretches in his mind.

He looks away and she must understand. He can't say these things out loud, not to her. From the corner of his eye, he sees her flinch slightly, draw her sharp gaze from his form and to the floor, then to the same window he looks out of. She takes a breath and he can see her struggling to keep her composure. Of course she understands. Of course she understands. Of course.

She confuses him because she's a mudblood, but brilliant. Charming, but hates him. Lovely and beautiful and kind, but cruel and hurt and violent. And she confuses him, and he is never confused, he never does not understand, does not know. And she confuses him because he thinks he might love her, this lovely, brilliant creature, and that is the biggest curiosity of all, the biggest enigma, the most pressing riddle, and it pushes and shoves at him, taunts him with an answer he cannot reach and fears he will never solve. And she hates him. She hates him so much he can feel it burning him whenever she looks at him when he thinks he's not paying attention, her hatred undisguised and unbidden, but he's always paying attention always attuned to anything she may say or do or reveal, so he knows all of her hatred, all of her anger, and he does not understand any of it. But, just like love, the fact that he does not understand it does not mean he does not feel it, does not bring it into himself and try to quell it and extinguish and fail, again and again until he's forced to admit his defeat and concede.

Her voice is quiet and it feels almost as if she had read his mind, her words sounding like the kind of response you'd read in a book, perfect and something that could only come from the pen of a person that had access to more than only one mind, but he would have known if she had, he would have known, he always knows. But she never falls into what is expected. Maybe she had read his mind, done it so discretely, so effortlessly and skillfully that he hadn't even noticed, hadn't had a clue that there were not one, but two people in the sacred spot, invading the one place, the one thing, that was only his and always had been and he'd usually be furious, but he can't bring himself to care. All his thoughts would be hers if she wished it, she only had to ask and he didn't entirely mind if she didn't, she could take everything from him and he'd love her all the same. The idea makes him sick. How could he be so weak? So pathetic?

"I don't hate you, you know."

He sighs, shakes his head, almost laughs.

"Hermione, please, you insult me if you think I'm so stupid as to believe that."

She sits up, straightening her stance to argue, her natural form, "I don't—"

"Hermione, please."

And his eyes must be pleading, his voice must be tired, he must look broken or sad or angry or all of the above because she is quiet, her words halt and no more rush to take their place. He knows his voice sounds cracked, maybe even broken, but he cannot see what she sees, feel what she feels, understand what she thinks. She doesn't look at him. They're quiet once again and the wind outside howls, an owl hoots, splashes of water are heard from the Great Lake, the Giant Squid moving about and she decides to speak, quietly, any fight taken out of her from all the times they've talked about this same thing, argued and yelled and forced to feel, no matter how much they may try to fight against it, try to be rational and think and not let things as petty as _emotions_ take them over.

"Do you feel the least bit of guilt?"

And there she goes, bringing up Hagrid once again, as she has done every day since it happened, save for the one she spent with Alphard, away from him and any dark thoughts he may bring into her heart and soul.

He decides to be honest with her, a decision he never makes consciously, never makes when he's not in fits of anger or desperation brought on by her cruel persona and the specific actions she takes, the specific words she speaks, the specific moves she makes to illicit such a response in him. But, today, he is honest, willfully and gracefully, his voice coming out like water flows in a stream after heavy rainfall, smooth and forceful and everything in between.

"No, not at all. The only reason I've even given it a second thought is because you seemed so upset by it."

She hardly hesitates before she nods, but she does hesitate, he notices that much.

She makes to leave, starts dragging her legs towards her, preparing to stand, and she gets about halfway up before merely crumbling to the ground once again. And she nods. She nods. He means to help her up, to help her feel happy again, to help her do anything, to help her, but he stays put, watching her broken form and she nods. She nods.

Okay.

"Okay."

"Okay."

And he can see she wants to speak and so stays quiet as she gathers the courage, as she gathers her thoughts and wit.

"I could love you, you know."

Her words are quieter than he's ever heard them and she's looking down at her feet, her bravery not allowing her to look away from him, but her humanity not allowing her to look towards him, to see what effect her words may cause, what pain they may bring, what hopes they may shatter, what dreams they may create.

She tells him she could love him. She tells him it scares her that she doesn't hate him, after all of this, after all of him and what he is and what he's done, but she doesn't. She doesn't.

He asks her if she would ever join him and she doesn't know but he can see a flicker of something, maybe an urge to laugh at the ridiculous-ness of it all, take light before she pinches out the flame.

"I'm a mudblood, after all."

And she does smile this time, letting a spark of herself take flight, disappear into the night air and leave her cold, the fire inside her burning out faster every moment she has to spend in this reality, in this reality that has become hers, theirs. And the word she speaks sounds equally beautiful and awful coming from her pink lips and he has no words for her, finally neither knows what to say and he can see it does not bring her the relief she had hoped for, her despair too great for something so simple to solve it anymore, and it does not bring him anything at all except another pebble to add on to his great mountain of hopelessness in ever getting this girl existing before him to love him. To love him back.

Back?

Back?

 _Back_?

How can it possibly be _back_?

 _Back_ means he loves her. _Back_ means he cares for her, maybe more than himself, maybe more than his goals or his grades or immortal life or anything and everything, which is a purely ridiculous thought.

But,

He does, doesn't he? He would curse someone if they looked at her the wrong way, kill them if they touched her.

He doesn't kill Alphard merely because he knows it would upset her, knows it would pain her to see his lifeless body, to know it would not have happened if she had not existed and he cannot hurt her, cannot bring himself to throw the last handful of sand into the hearth of her heart.

He loves her, he's said it all along but now he must accept the entire reality of it. This isn't just some foreign idea to ponder upon, just another condition of his life that he must learn to live with and deal with. He loves her. He does not want to push the thought into the corner of his mind, he wants to see her in front of him, hear her laughter, feel her heartbeat in the palm of his hand. She confuses him because love doesn't make any sense. She confuses him because she's alight with life and he craves such an everlasting force. She confuses him because she fills every gap in him, every gap he refused to acknowledge, refused to believe existed, and she hates him, hates the very core of his being, the very air he breathes. She hates him and belongs to another, but he loves her all the same and suddenly there are two people in this very room that hate him very much.


	11. Common

"You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle Father's name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of the foul, common muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch?"

He's angry and she's afraid and she doesn't mean to upset him and she's sorry that life has been so cruel to him. She's sorry that he wasn't raised by loving people. She's sorry that everything in his life had been so entirely sour up until that point, she's sorry that not a single drop of honey has dropped into his cup and that he was only left with his own bitter-ness and anger. She's sorry no one had ever loved him and that he had never learned to love or to live. She's sorry but she's more afraid than anything else. He is angry and an angry Tom Riddle, even in his teenage form, was not something to laugh at, not something to even glance at. It was something to run from, something to hide from, something to fuel nightmares and regrets and pains.

"I'm sorry, Tom."

She says it quietly, slowly, considers not using his given name but fears using his chosen one more, fears what powers it may remind him of, what darkness it may bring into his mind and out of his hand.

Neither speaks. He lets out a heavy breath and turns away from air, his arms loosely crossed over his chest before he lets them fall and dips his head.

"Hermione."

He hesitates, unsure of his words and of himself and she only looks at him. His hand is shaking, just a bit. He takes another deep breath, his chest rising and falling steeply with the action and he still doesn't look at her when he speaks, when he finally asks what he's been meaning to, her heart stops and she doesn't know how to respond and dread overtakes her.

"Do you love me?"

He reaches his hand out to her, the pale thing shaking a minute amount and she nearly cringes at the sight, at the thought of him loving her and the thought of him touching her, caressing her, caring about and for her, but, that is the plan, right?

He draws his shaking hand back to himself quickly, fearing his own weakness and they fall into a gap of words, into a new silence not unlike the old once again.

She gathers the courage to speak, because she is courageous and she has a mission and a duty and important things to save and do and be, so, after a shaky breath, she speaks, looking directly at him when she wished she could look away or run away or all of the above.

"Do you love _me_?"

He doesn't respond, just as she didn't respond and suddenly all these weird feelings that exist in between them, the strange thoughts and terrifying _what-ifs_ she had always thrown to the wind, the sideways glances and whispered phrases she had always let go, that had always come knocking on her window at night, ready to infiltrate her sleep, to plague her every moment with _him_ , seem like the funniest thing in the world and she can't but laugh, just a quick, quiet thing, but the first time it's happened in a while. The conditions for this one, however, are much darker than what would be needed for a light, heartfelt thing of a laugh. Her laugh is low and sad and nothing like what used to be her truth.

He looks up sharply at the sound, at the distortions and the pains that make up this foreign, unrecognizable melody.

Her laughter fades into a smile and, as tears reach her eyes and a sadness hunches her shoulders and freezes over, forcing her to wrap her arms around herself and bow her head, the cold grey of the stone beneath her feet making a home for itself in the brown of her eyes.

And he, very quietly, asks if she has to marry Alphard.

She takes a deep breath, tries to collect herself, tries to banish the grey from her eyes, the sadness from her shoulders, the pain from her heart, but she cannot bring herself to shift her position, to straighten herself, to lighten herself, to love herself, so she doesn't. She stays hunched and tired and sad as she responds.

"I hope the stability my marriage to him will bring will help me think of death less."

She cannot say his name, cannot sully it with the truth and the lies of the statement and all that she has forced into his life.

"Does he know about your blood status?"

She takes a breath and hesitates, is this a thing she can tell him? A thing he should know? A thing that would help their mission? Her mission? And she nods.

"He knows, of course he knows."

"And his family—"

"Does not, of course."

He nods. He looks away. He sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, mucking up the ever-present air of perfection surrounding him, creating some scene of frustration, a distortion in the smooth surface that makes up Tom Riddle.

"Do you love him?"

His voice cracks with the word and a cold knife glides over Hermione's spine, chilling her to the core.

She begins to shake her head, still looking at him, but can't bring herself to brace the waves of his eyes and has to look away, has to swim towards land and safety and away from all he expects and all he wants and all she must do.

"I don't know."

It's as if, for just a second, the entire world stopped. Owls freeze in flight, the wind ceases its rampage on flags and hair and hearts, snores pause, sleepwalkers stall, and the tsunami readying itself in his eyes stills, the quiet before the storm, and she finally looks at him once again, her land clashing with his ocean.

"I hope I will, I really hope I will, Tom."

* * *

"Please, Professor, I don't want to do this anymore. I'm afraid of what he might do, or say, or, or, or _feel_. Professor, I don't want to be a part of this, _please_."

Her hands shake, her lips shake, her eyelids flutter, her heart skips, her tears ache for release, but she tries to hold it all in, for Dumbledore's sake, for Alphard's sake, for her pride's sake, for her own sake.

And she finally gathers the courage to look Dumbledore in the eye, expecting to be met with shame, with concern, with some kind of care, but finding only a smile peeking through the man's beard, a smile that does not speak towards her wishes, her desires, her needs, but rather a self-satisfied and happy smile, and such a thing could only worry her when placed on this man's face. This man who had forced her into so much, this man that had always revealed less than he knew, always remained wise and far and more now became cruel and close and less and it frightened her, the shift pained her.

She takes a breath, trying to control her tears, now sprouting from her own desperation, from her own fear that she will never escape this, that Voldemort and all the misery he brings with him will always be a part of her life, will always be a part of her.

Her voice is shaky, but with a power raging behind it, as if the cracks were not from her fear or from her desperation, but from the great earthquake of anger powering through her.

"Why are you smiling?"

If Dumbledore is surprised by her sudden change in disposition, he does not show it. He merely continues smiling and the fear and anger in Hermione continue rising.

"Miss James, I smile because Tom is showing change, even if just a little, and even if it is slow."

Hermione is at a loss for words. Everything she could have said and would have said rushes out of her because of the chill Dumbledore's words have brought upon her. She has created change. She has doomed herself and many others to despair, but she has created change, just a little and very slowly, but change, nevertheless. She has an effect on the beast and she doesn't know whether to cry or cheer and so does neither instead, she simply sits quietly and stares at her hands, as if willing them to rise up and choke her, to end this, or willing them to grab her wand and curse the professor, kill Tom, her mind racing to catch up with all the emotions and thoughts that must be made a part of her, that must be ingrained and pained over.

It is silent in the room until Dumbledore clears his throat, his smile gone and a strange expression on his face, as if he would have been ashamed to ask in another life and the shadow of the thought rests upon him and lingers on his face.

And he, very quietly, asks if she has to marry Alphard.

She takes a deep breath, tries to collect herself, tries to banish the grey from her eyes, the sadness from her shoulders, the pain from her heart, but she cannot bring herself to shift her position, to straighten herself, to lighten herself, to love herself, so she doesn't. She stays hunched and tired and sad as she responds.

"He makes me feel at home, less like dying and something like living."

He doesn't press the issue.

* * *

She's sure he notices the bags underneath her eyes, the new and extreme pale-ness of her skin, the shaking of her hands, the carnage of her lower lip, the mess of her hair, the pain of her heart, but he doesn't say a word about it. He holds her hand gently and he leads her to the couch, to the prim and proper and uncomfortable couch. He rubs her cheeks and she hadn't noticed any tears had fallen, but he wipes them away anyways and doesn't say a word about them. He kisses her nose and she feels him flinch at the cold, but his lips bring her nothing but warmth.

She doesn't want to talk about it, and he knows, he understands, and so he doesn't, and a warmth encompasses her at his touch and she wishes she loved him now more than ever before. She imagines it would make things easier, but, logically, thoughtfully, honestly, she knows it wouldn't. Nothing could make this easier.

He says he's glad the plan is working. She doesn't believe him. He's just saying what he's supposed to. She can see he's tired too and she wishes he didn't have to be a part of this.

She takes a deep breath, tries to collect herself, tries to banish the grey from her eyes, the sadness from her shoulders, the pain from her heart, but she cannot bring herself to shift her position, to straighten herself, to lighten herself, to love herself, so she doesn't. She stays hunched and tired and sad as she responds.

And she, very quietly, asks if he has to marry her. He says he's sorry. She says she's sorry.

Wrapped in his embrace, their lips meet and the warmth, the love and care, the understanding that it brings into her strikes her heart, punctures her soul and she cries. The tears leak from her eyes slowly and painfully, each tear leaving a blazing hot trail that chills her to the core. The tears meet their joined mouths and she can see their hopelessness on his lips when he pulls away. He pulls her into himself once again, her tears still falling silently, her shoulders shaking quietly, and he doesn't ask questions, doesn't force her to speak when he knows that she doesn't want to think about it, talk about it, care about it. He grants her relief and, in this time, it's the closest she can get to joy. And, even though she knows all this, even as she tries to think of only Alphard and all that he is to her and all that he has done for her, she can't help but think of _him_ , of how he would ask questions, force her to talk until she broke and then twist uncomfortably, trying to decide whether to ridicule her or comfort her. Wrapped in love and she can think of only him and she hates herself all the more.


	12. Need

"You won't be needing it."

"That's ridiculous, Tom, of course you'll be needing it. A patronus is very useful."

And he continues saying it's not necessary and she continues saying it is. And he continues saying it's useless and she continues saying it's powerful. And he continues saying it's pointless and she continues saying it's important. And he continues saying it's dumb and she continues saying he's childish. And he continues saying he can't do it and she continues saying she can teach him. And he continues saying he doesn't have any happy memories and she continues saying they can find some. And he continues saying there aren't any and she continues saying they can make some. And he's frustrated and she's calm. And he's angry and she's patient. And he's mean and she's gentle. And he's upset and she's glad.

"What's _your_ patronus?"

Maybe the words would distract her long enough for him to get out of this ridiculous, impossible task and, with her being so committed to it, it must be special, must be important, must reveal something about her, must mean something to her, because nothing ever seems to, nothing is ever special enough, good enough, important enough.

And, instead of answering him, of moving her mouth for the simplest of words, she smiles and a brightness that he had never seen before overtakes her and he desperately wants to know what her memory is, what makes her so happy and so relieved and so perfect and beautiful, but he doesn't ask, doesn't interrupt her, doesn't question or pain her. He stays in his darkness and doesn't allow himself to revel in her light, only watching it from afar, the tiniest fragments of it burning and scratching at him like a window in a fire.

A silvery otter escapes her wand and plays in the air, the mist its tools and the breeze its breath, its joy reflected in her eyes and its lightness in her smile before it disappears into a swirling dust that covers them both and she's still beaming as she turns to him and asks him to try, the brightness around her slowly fading into her hair and skin and the walls and the floor and everything in between that and them.

He raises his wand and he closes his eyes, his mind racing along its blanks, desperately searching for a memory, a thought, a moment, anything that would work, anything that could possibly be happy enough to produce such a corporeal form and he thinks he's found it, at least it, unlike so many of his memories, can bring a sort of spark to his mind, something near happiness, something near what he needs, but the possibility of real and pure happiness had never occurred to him and so this will have to do, and so he opens his mouth and he yells the phrase and-

He gets a wisp of smoke and it disintegrates into dust and the spark dies away like a fire, the possibility of warmth leaving him with it.

And she tries to help him but he's upset and it doesn't matter anyways. He won't be needing a patronus. It's useless, stupid, insipid, something only used as a pretty show and a vague power and a pretty show of vague power.

He asks her what her memory is, to distract himself, to distract her, to try not to think about this obvious failure, and her smile, which had held strong throughout helping him and angering him and him yelling and breathing hard and near crying, finally falters. She shakes her head and says something vague about her friends and he wants to know what brings her such joy, about her life in the before, about her life in light, but he doesn't push it, his mind so focused on his shortcomings and on the strange emotion that overcomes her face, the golden shade of sunshine from the happiness of her memories mucked up and tinged with the grey hue of the most heartbreaking sadness and hopelessness and he'd like to understand, but the words and memories belong to her and it'd be cruel to take them and stupid to give them.

It's quiet now and she takes a breath. He hears it shake, just the tiniest bit, and then she speaks, a weak attempt at her regular tone and a mock of inquisitiveness.

"What did you try to use as your memory?"

He doesn't even hesitate and, at her reaction, torn between laughing or crying, he realizes it would have been better to lie.

"Creating my first horcrux."

Her voice sounds choked, its release cracked, flowing out of her immediately after a twisted chuckle and accompanying tear-filled eyes. She shakes her head, a broken smile on her face and a tear in her eye.

"That won't work."

He looks down, caught between shame and confusion and frustration, with himself and with her and with this stupid patronus. He almost throws his wand down but he knows that would only seem childish and it would only make her more concerned, make her ask more questions, and he doesn't want that now. He's found something he can't do and he has no desire to prolong his embarrassment or to have her attempt to comfort him or to continue trying to perform the ridiculous, stupid spell.

"It's a useless spell, it doesn't matter if I can or can't do it."

He knows his voice sounds childish and he wishes he had considered his tone before speaking, but it is too late by now and he begins leaving the tower, leaving their shared space, but he knows she'll call him back, he knows, and he doesn't know if it's what he wants, but he knows it'll happen, nevertheless. She takes her time. He's almost out the door when her voice reaches him. And she's not comforting him, not telling him it's okay or it'll be okay or it's always been okay. She's prodding him, trying to anger him, embarrass him. She knows just what will work, she knows him too well, understands too well. The thought scares him, a notion he launches to the furthest reaches of his mind.

"How do you expect to be the most powerful wizard to have ever lived if you can't even cast a simple patronus?"

Her head is tilted to the side, her eyebrow raised, the lightest smirk outlining her lips, her tone just stepping a toe into the cold lake of condescendence, and he has to try again, he has to wipe that smirk off her face, has to push her out of the water, he has to prove himself. She knows him too well. She understands him too well and it's terrifying and exhilarating.

He tries to cast a patronus, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and he's exhausted.

He's breathing hard, panting, hardly understanding what's happening anymore, and she's rubbing his back, whispering to him, still encouraging him, after yelling and tears and fears, she's still there, and he still can't do it. He's tired. He doesn't want to try again, and she tells him it's okay and it's so soft and so far from what he had come to expect from her, her fiery anger fades into the warmth of dying embers and his eyes are threatening to close and his muscles threatening to fail him and her face is so close to his and he's so, so very tired that, weakly, without thinking much about it, or at all, he kisses her forehead, the idea never even crossing his mind before he does it, he never having a chance to debate it, it coming to him so quickly and automatically. And he's left with his heart beating faster than it should, his face feeling warmer than it would, his lips tingling in a way they never had, and she smiles at him and he's too tired and too nervous and too afraid and too anxious to tell if it's real or not. She brushes her hand through his hair and he closes his eyes and wishes the moment didn't have to end but, he feels her hand hesitate halfway through before stopping and pulling away, the movement tugging at him, but he keeps his eyes closed, nevertheless, not wanting to see or feel the end of this yet, not wanting to deal with the reality of what he feels and what he is and the reality of all that she is. But, he has to. Reality is not an option and our dreams are only temporary distractions. He feels more than hears her sigh and he listens to the shuffles of her standing up, her hand brushing against his and her lips touching his cheek so lightly, he's not sure it happens at all, and he hears her steps growing quieter and further and, still, he doesn't open his eyes. He stays on the floor, he growing colder and the world growing quieter, and still he remains with his eyes closed, because as long as he doesn't open them, the truth is merely a possibility, a choice. But, of course, it's not a choice that's his to make, nor one that can even be made anymore. The truth exists without consent and with the raging fury of a tsunami and he is merely a tiny boat caught in the middle of the storm, and so, he must open his eyes, must watch his demise, and he's alone and he's tired and he's confused in a cold room on a cold night in a cold world.

He's sitting on the ground, his back resting against the stone wall, his shoulders slumped, his eyelids drooping, his hair mussed, his lips chapped, his brain threatening to fall into the sweet bliss of sleep, his eyes ready to follow, his mind filled with _her_. Her eyes, her skin, her hair, her voice, her skill, her duel, her intellect, her smile, her light, her laughter, her jokes, her mind, her soul, her-

He casts the patronus, one more time, and an almost-corporeal figure appears, but it fades too quickly to be certain and he's far too tired to try it again, far too tired to admit to the happiness the very thought of her brings him, far too tired to face the reality of truth, fully and completely just yet, far too tired to exist in so cruel a world where, even if he learns to love, he will not be loved back. He closes his eyes and let's himself lie to the world.


	13. Shows

"Let me show you."

She hesitates, looks back at the castle, and then at him again, because they really shouldn't be here. They are no longer students, and so the forest is doubly forbidden to them, but

She nods.

Yes, okay. Show me.

And he smiles and he takes her hand with hardly a second glance before leading her into the darkness of the woods and she tries to ignore the pleasant warmth that his coldness brings.

It's evening, the remnants of light from the sun still illuminating the sky in a battle of black and white, the ever-changing blue the stage and the forced participant.

There's hardly a word spoken between the two as they walk, their steps muted by the mud and the matted dirt and the soggy leaves, but she can see him smiling whenever he turns his head slightly, making sure they're headed in the right direction or that no one is following them, or that they're safe (or that whatever trap he's placed to kill her is still intact).

Something. Something with wings lands on her nose and she sputters and he turns, the creature flittering away from her immediately and his laughter flittering to her a second later.

She used to hate being laughed at, used to try to convince herself that they were just jealous because she was smarter than they were, knew more than they did, but she could never reach the point of believing, she could never think herself better than the kids with friends and smirks and laughs all around, because she loved her books and learning, but she wanted company and joy. And she had it. And this boy, this man, for his crimes should not be lessened by a believed state of immaturity, had taken it, had taken it all, but yet, here she was, laughing alongside him in a place where she might die, where he might easily kill her, where she might easily want to die and be killed and end this immortal torture, and, maybe, just maybe, it was partially because of this that she allows herself to close her eyes and allows her mouth to open and tears to spring. But, she can live with these decisions, she can allow herself to laugh, she can even survive the hysterics, but the breaking point, the last drop needed for the dam to spill, to crush the town with the weight of its water, occurs now, because Hermione, in her own body, in her own mind, in her own sense, is happy, heatedly, blisteringly happy. She is happy as she laughs, as she breathes, as she smiles, as she lives, and this pains her more than anything else and she allows her joyous tears become those that accompany sobs and allows the horrible sounds to escape her, just two, just two desperate to breathe and to cease feeling, but it is enough. He straightens immediately and doesn't take hold of her hand again, whether from anger or desperation or disappointment or sadness or fondness, she does not know, but he holds his coldness to himself, nevertheless, and in some far reach of herself, she's grateful. At least for a few minutes, at least for a second, she doesn't have to hate herself for how she feels, she doesn't have to hate herself for forgetting what he's done and what he will do, for just a moment, she can just exist and breathe and not have to think about _him_ and what he does to her.

He doesn't look back at her and continues walking deeper into the forest, and she follows, mutely, without thought or qualm of him, only trying to control her tears, quietly wiping at her cheeks and clenching her fists to try to will them away, and wiping again when that doesn't work.

He stops, abruptly, and she would have run into his back if she hadn't stumbled on a branch, her vision blurry from tears that affect neither her voice nor her mind, but affect his, the disgust on his face at her weakness mild but true.

He looks at her blankly for a second longer, she on the dirty floor they had stepped through so easily not long ago, tears still streaming, their tracks lit by the pale moonlight rising, before he extends his hand to her and she rushes forward to grasp it and feels all the weaker for it, the desperation of a person deprived of food and having a morsel offered, miserable and awake and pained. He doesn't comment on it, but doesn't look at her for a second longer and she can almost feel his disappointment. Because she is weak. Because she is dumb. Because she is too emotional and too hurt and too broken.

But, he doesn't let go of her hand

and he doesn't pull her roughly, or

look her in the eyes.

He tugs on her, gently and slowly, watching her feet grace the ground, making sure she doesn't fall again and, if she does, he's there, ready for her to fall for him or let his own descent begin.

He reaches for her other hand and she lets him take it and he leads her up, slowly, letting her feet find their place before reaching again, and the moves pull at her like a dance and she's reminded of happier times, not of the images or the words or the people, but of the feelings, of the love and relief and joy, and this she tells herself until she reaches the height he stands on, the small rise of the Earth, and looks into his eyes and he smiles and his eyes release the smallest amount of tension and she sees the deepest parts of the ocean and his coldness warms her once more, and the realization grasps her, desperately, angrily, despairingly: his grimace of disgust was concern, his disappointment was care, his anger was love, his sadness was hope, and the joy was not remembered from a dance not yet here but long gone and done, but new and created just now and cherished by her and by him and all.

She smiles back at him, the movement light and airy and completely real.

And then they hear hooves. An arrow is shot at the trunk of the tree right by her head, millimeters from her skull, the air winding her hair along the arrow's path, and she knows it's a warning shot, she knows they would have killed her if they aimed to. There is a shout to leave the centaurs' land or prepare for death and suddenly, his grin turns wide and he's pulling at her again, and they're running and laughing and arrows are pouring around them and their happiness rings out between the shower of death.

They run and run, the pretty meadow and its flowers and light and dewy ground forgotten, replaced by their laughter and their feet and their wind and their touch. And the hooves fade away and their footsteps stumble and stop and their wind lightens and their laughter quiets and their touch deepens. Their souls meet, watching each other through the colored panes of their eyes and the tips of each strand of their hair meet in a wiry mess and their hearts beat in a violent struggle and their breaths mingle, fighting and succumbing to each other, becoming one as they get closer and closer and closer and closer and then

There's a moment of about to be, a moment of hesitation, tilting on the edge of infinity, awaiting the what if, the velvet and softness and delight, the risk and anticipation of a

They meet.

Lips chapped and words broken, breaths one and frozen noses touching, hands trembling forward and hair floating apart. Words leaving from her mind as breaths are stolen from her lips, as garments fall from her body and iced petals fall from her heart, peeling away to reach the wretched stone beneath.

And they're kissing. And they're touching and holding and loving and it's all so, so very beautiful. She knows he must have meant to show her the meadow, with the pretty flowers and the evening sky, but they ran and now they stand in mud and now they lay in mud and still they kiss and touch and love in mud and it's all the more beautiful, all the more real, all the more perfect, all the more them.

Somehow, she can't think of Harry now, she can't make herself hate this creature in front of her, this man, this boy tracing her outline ever so softly and then tracing the colors in between the lines and any thought of leaving him, of being disgusted by him, of hating him right now and right here flees her mind, shoots out of her like an arrow and all she can do is gasp and laugh and begin again.

* * *

She tells Alphard what happened, to explain her crumpled clothes, the muddy streaks in her hair, the bright blush on her face, the hickeys in between her thighs. She tells him all of the truth and tries to ignore how his face crumples, like a white rose being crushed by a child's pocket because she was too young or too dumb to realize what would happen to the beautiful thing she had seen if she put it in herself, because all she wanted to do was keep it eternally, to own its beauty and be able to gaze upon it whenever and forever. Tom loves her, he has to, or he must at least care for her, care for her deeply because, in between all the things she knew about him, she knew that he didn't do _that_ , never had any interest in anything like _that_. But he had. They had. And it had been beautiful and kind and infinitely ending and beginning and starting and resolving and revolving and being again.

But, she tells Alphard, shares it with him because she has to share it with someone, can't keep this thing, this evil, glistening thing to herself, and she can't tell Dumbledore because she knows, even as she would have shared her worries, quivered with her fears, shook at the truths and implications of all that she had done, he would only encourage it. His hands stilling in crazed delight, his eyes alighting with glee. He would encourage it and she does not want to be encouraged, she does not want to believe that this thing that pulls at Alphard's breaking, the tearing of his seams, is a good thing, that she is doing a good thing by hurting him and herself.

But even she must admit that she's doing _something_. Because this is not the Tom Riddle she remembers, not the Tom Riddle she knows that was, that must have been, that would have been.

But that doesn't matter. Not here, not now, because it is Alphard in front of her, his smile dropped, his shoulders drooped, his eyes unfocused. She's hurt him, again, she knows she has, even as he asks her if she's hungry, casually, trying to hide the strain in his voice as he walks away from her, so she can't see his eyes, can't see his pain.

But they talk, as they must, as they always have, as they know keeps them sane.

He is upset, quiet, distant, avoiding her eyes and her hands and her words,

But,

He's okay.

He knows duty comes first. Duty always comes first and they must do what they must do.

And she's sorry. He deserves better than she could ever hope to offer and she's sorry.

And he's shrugging and smiling and dragging her to the dining room, willing them both to forget, to enjoy, to live in their just-for-now moments.


	14. Preference

"I prefer it this way. Just you and me."

The air seems to still, the golden dust floating around them, dirt and lint and tiny, insignificant, unimportant specks lit up by the sun, made beautiful by the sun, made important by the sun, pausing in their airy journey around the pair. He hears her stop mid-breath and scrambles to come back from his bliss, to realize what he said wrong, to understand what elicited this reaction from her, this pausing in her index finger drawing circles on his palm, this pause in her breathing, this stilling of air, of her baby hair moving gently around her head with the light gusts of wind, this falling of her smile, this crashing of her eyes.

She's soft and lovely and shy and quiet and, after their night together, even just a few moments ago, when she was smiling at him, her eyes alight and unencumbered by anything, by everything that they are always clouded by, when her eyes were a clear sky, a ray of sunlight illuminating his own meaninglessness, he was almost certain that he could produce a patronus, just looking into her, holding her and believing that she was to stay and that she was his.

She's so quiet. So incredibly quiet now and he wishes he wouldn't have said anything. He misses her whispers, only minutes after they've gone, he misses her touch, only moments after it's fled, he misses her smile, only notes after it's stopped playing, and he misses her love, only seconds after believing it existed, after his melody ended.

"Hermione."

He's afraid to speak too loudly, lest the world fall, lest the sun relinquish the dust and it all fall down, showering them in meaninglessness, the golden specks returning to their gray indifference.

She hesitates before looking him in the eyes, hers troubled, their bliss forgotten or repressed, she upset, nonetheless, and he trying to bring her back, to build a home in the bliss and live there forever, with her by his side, gazing at him with all of her golden sunshine, warming his waters and transforming his refuse.

"Come away with me."

As always, he demands where he should question, but she knows his uncertainty, the pride that could be destroyed at her rejection, the shame, the fear brewing just beneath his surface. She hesitates again but, laying so close to her, her golden eyes and golden hair and golden skin and golden self all surrounded by white sheets and light walls and open windows and his heart, he can see her like never before, he notices her eyes widening, just the slightest amount, and he notices this, not to hurt her, or sabotage her, but to understand her and convince her. Her mind forces itself to fully awaken in seconds, the effort showing in her breathing laboring, her forehead crinkling, her flush blossoming.

"Tom."

Her voice is soft, clean, apologetic, and he knows he doesn't want to hear what comes next, doesn't want to hear her rejection, her apology, her honesty.

She doesn't look at him. She readies herself to stand from the bed, her body tensing with the coming action. She's staring at the sheet covering them both when she speaks again and it's all facts he knows but doesn't want to think about, doesn't want to hear coming out of her mouth, attacking him with their truth, with their honesty, with her apologetic eyes and sincere tone, with her hands reaching towards him and her lips meeting the skin of his forehead, with her fingers brushing his cheek and her body cradling his with her soft words and broken promises and pained goodbyes and whispered plans for later. She's engaged. She's in love. She's sorry.

She pulls the sheet off her body and stands and he is treated to her bare back and her bare neck and her wild hair, all of it covered in him and his marks, but her heart remaining a bare, foreign land dry of his waters.

She gets dressed and pushes away his weak attempts to help her.

She smiles at him and kisses him lightly on the mouth before disapparating to her home, her face fading from right before him, fading from him and apparating to her fiancé, to the life she chose for herself, to the life he is not a part of, to the life she loves, the life she lives without him.

And he's angry and he wants her to be his and, even on his birthday, here he is, in a room in the middle of nowhere, alone and messed up beyond belief and with no one else he'd like to see but her, again, forever and always; and she with Alphard, again, forever and always and 'til death do them part.

He attempts to cast a patronus again, thinking of her warmth and the gauzy love between them, but he can't focus on her sunshine because all he can think about is Alphard, the sky, enveloping her for all of eternity, even when Tom can't so much as see her, left only with the darkness of night and his waves and the sand. He can't focus on _her_ because it's all violated, corrupted, stained, ruined by _him_.

Her mind. For his conversation.

Her heart. For his taking.

Her smile. For his humor.

Her hair. For his fingers.

Her eyes. For his joy.

Her nose. For his tapping.

Her ears. For his whispering.

Her lips. For his words. For his mouth. For his tongue. For his body. For him. For him. For him.

He needs her to be his.

But he can't focus on that right now. Can't let the thoughts in his mind continue to float, can't let them take shape, can't let them become his actions, can't let them become his end, her end, their end. But, they never had a beginning. What's to stop him from bringing about the end to something that never started? That isn't real? That has no meaning? When his thoughts, when what those thoughts could become and could do could mean so much? Be so much? Be so real and meaningful? When those thoughts could end the unreal and begin, begin, begin?

His anger, the thoughts of killing and hurting, surge around him and his magic, dark and powerful, all-encompassing, and not fully his, swirls around his pale, naked body, the white sheet and all the purity of moments not long past shifted. The bliss of it replaced by its falseness. The beauty of it replaced by its jealousy. The truth of it replaced by its end.

But

Even if it is all a lie, even if she loves Alphard, even if she will never leave Alphard, she must still feel something for himself. If not love, then at least some deep affection, something that could become love with enough pushing, with enough tugging and pulling.

It's not all fake, not all debris and dust. There's some gold in it. Tainted and dull, but gold, nevertheless.

He sits down again, allowing all his darkness and magic to seep back into his body, letting the room return to its white and sun as he puts on his clothes, taking time with the dark cloths that he hadn't last night, her clothes already long disentangled from their pile, and heads out of the room, out of their everything, and to work, where all that exists is him and his ambitions, no thoughts of love allowed, only the hatred that can so easily be yielded from it, that he had so easily dissected and pocketed.


	15. Miscalculation

"I miscalculated."

She can't breathe.

Alphard might be dead, his chest, which was rising rapidly with his gasps only seconds ago, was now flat, any breathing unnoticeable, his skin quickly turning blue in the cold of the wing, his eyes still standing wide open, his hands still clutching at his chest, his legs still twisted from their efforts to escape the pain contorting his body, and all he can say is that he miscalculated? Alphard, tortured and pained, cold and closed and Tom-

He looks as calm as ever. She's never been so infuriated by that look, by that cool, unconcerned look. He doesn't care that Alphard might die. He doesn't care that he has just killed his friend, her fiancé. He doesn't care that a life might be over because he missed the bat's raven-colored body and hit Alphard's raven-colored head instead, the spell flying from his wand as quickly as the bat had from the abandoned wing of the Black mansion as soon as they set foot in it. And who launches spells like that at a simple bat? Spells she had never even heard of until they fell from his lips. Spells that threw Alphard down in the blink of an eye and just kept coming, as if he couldn't see that there were no bats around anymore, no dark winged creatures, that it was only Alphard and his dark clothes and his dark hair and his dark bags beneath his dark eyes and his dark hole where his livelihood once was bright.

"You miscalculated?"

Air still evades her, but her words are calm and measured, her eyes focusing on Alphard's hand, daring it to move, her mouth hardly opening and her mind hardly thinking as she speaks the words.

He is confused, she can feel that much. Maybe he was preparing himself for her anger, her desperation, her pain, but she gives him nothing and she knows for a fact he would have eaten up the broken pieces of her soul if he could, danced in the shards if it meant Alphard was gone, broken her again and again if it meant she would be his. It's what he does. He takes her pride and her love and her joy and he turns them into coldness and shame and pain and she wants to be done with it all.

"I-"

And she must stop to take a breath, to give herself such a freedom, still granted to her and still missing from Alphard. She swallows and closes her eyes and launches a war in her mind and heart, daring the tears to come, and they staying back in fear, residing at the border, ready to fire as soon as she retreats.

She still doesn't look at him. She doesn't know if she ever can again. Her eyes burn just thinking about what he's done, about what she let him do to Alphard, because it was not an accident. They both know it was not an accident, but yet, here she is still, not killing him or hurting him or doing anything at all to him, but just dealing with herself, remaining weak and inconsequential and awful, even as Alphard lays at her feet, as his labored breaths fall to memory.

She sees his hand twitch out of the corner of her eye, the paleness of his skin clashing violently with the black of his trousers and the navy of his sweater, just as his presence grates at her reason, her calm, her humanity. He must be debating reaching out to touch her. She's dizzy, nauseous, disgusted. His touch would make her vomit. His hand remains at his side and she's dimly aware of her relief. Because, maybe she wouldn't be disgusted. Maybe she would cave into him, give up her fight, relinquish her will, become his. This was too difficult, he was too cruel, too smart, too dark. She wasn't strong enough for this kind of thing. She would give in if only he reached a hand out, said a word, asked her away. She would give in.

But he didn't and she didn't.

She looked down at Alphard, kneeled beside him, grasped his cold hand in hers, let tears gather at her eyes, the men preparing their arms, and she can't believe herself. This is Alphard, good and kind and his warmth turned cold for her. This is Alphard, dead and gone for her. For her, because of her, because of her, because of her. Her fault. A singe man in the lineup shoots and a tear falls, her grip on Alphard's hand tightens, her body shakes with the effort to keep herself contained, to avoid Tom and his touch, to maintain herself.

Alphard's eyelids flutter and her breath catches.

He deserves so much more.

She clears her throat and nods, as if assuring herself that she was going to do the right thing.

"I have to go. I'm taking him to St. Mungo's."

And Tom springs into action immediately, reaching out to catch her before she can reach Alphard and apparate away, before she can leave his shores forever, bathing him in darkness for eternity.

"Hermione, we can heal him ourselves, you know we can. You do not need to go to St. Mungo's."

His voice is calm and collected, but the desperation is clear, his words are a bit rushed, the hand he uses to reach out to her shakes just the tiniest amount, and she knows that if she had the courage or bravery or stupidity to look into his eyes, there would be nothing but pleading with a gauzy lining of confidence, no sadness or concern for her Alphard, but only for himself and what he would be without her.

His hand on her is painful. He holds her lightly and tightly, the edges of his nails rubbing her skin, the appendage still trembling in its efforts to not hurt her, to not frighten her with his force and fear.

"Hermione, please."

His voice is quiet this time, almost a whisper or the first, gentle waves at dawn, falling on cracked sand ravaged from a night of high waves thrown by the moon.

She might stay. If she looks into his eyes and there's- if there's- if there's _anything_ there at all, anything real. She might stay.

She takes a deep breath and angles her eyesight up, bracing herself as if she were going to stare at the sun. His breaths become shallow as they make eye contact and she can see the emotions shifting in his eyes as he tries to decide which would convince her, how he could keep her in a little chair on the ocean's edge forever. He hasn't decided, he can't figure it out, so his tone keeps shifting and his ideas keep moving and he can't find the look, the words, the way to keep her. His shores need to pull at her, guide her, but he's too overwhelmed, she can see it, his eyes shifting from hers to her feet to the wall, to the window, to the couches, but never to Alphard, because that's not what he's thinking about. He might just throw a wave over and drown her, never allowing her body to wash up on shore, keeping her forever. He doesn't care about Alphard, she knows, but yet, it still takes a moment too long for her to make her final decision, for her to be rational and logical and for her to give Alphard what he's given her.

She feels like she hasn't breathed since she looked into his eyes. She looks away and lets the air rush in, but it feels like lead and her lungs are full and painful but she is empty.

"I need to go."

His breath is ragged, she can hear him swallow.

"Hermione-"

His voice broken, but she doesn't fall for it.

It sounds real.

"I have to go."

"Please-"

"Good-bye, Tom."

But how could it be? She doesn't look back. She grabs Alphard, too roughly, she barely being able to feel, too numb and wrong, and he groans lightly from the pain and she hardly registers the hope this sound brings as she disapparates to St. Mungo's and, still, she can hear the echoes of him yelling after her, can still see one last image of him reaching out to stop her and sinking to his knees from the futility. Even with a dying Alphard in her arms, his blood on her clothes and his breaths running cold against her neck, she's thinking of _him_ , always, always, always.

* * *

They question her for hours. Because they've never seen the curse before. Because they don't know if he's more dead or alive, if he'll ever wake up. They try spell after spell, even delving into muggle methods to try to figure out what's wrong, how to help him, try to offer some semblance of a future life, but it won't come forward, it won't make itself known. They don't let her near him. They keep her cornered in a secluded hallway on a stained green chair, always surrounded by at least three healers who never seem to run out of words, even if their ideas have finished long ago. They suspect her, she can tell, and she feels too ashamed to tell them off, too guilty to push past them, too afraid to take a breath. She's afraid of what Alphard might think, afraid that he'll yell or be upset or tell her off, if he ever wakes up at all, if he even lives through the night. But, more than that, she's afraid he'll understand. That he'll just smile, inches from death, and tell her it's okay and crack some bad joke, his pain unmistakably shining through his dark eyes, and she, him, and the grim figure of death avoided will sit together and she'll feel all the worse because she deserves his hate and he refuses to give it. She can't live with his love, she's not worthy of it. She should have drowned in Tom's waves, but she came to let the sun dry her and it refuses to burn her, avoiding its nature for its goodness and her pain.

Through all the questioning, she doesn't say a word about Riddle and, she realizes, he knew she wouldn't, he would have stopped her otherwise, forced her to stay down, threatened her, done something, anything, and she's disgusted with him. For being so self-assured and arrogant to believe that she wouldn't give him up, that she'd lie for him and protect him after what he did to Alphard. But she's far more disgusted with herself for wanting to protect him, for falling into his predictions, for acting just as he knew she would. For taking his side without even thinking about it and allowing him to remain unpunished as Alphard struggles to shine down the hallway, the sun growing cold and the ocean threatening to take over, wrecking everything in its path with its chilling waters.

She misses her friends and her parents and the burrow and home and she doesn't know if she'll ever see any of it again and she makes a decision, finally one that she can claim as belonging only to her. She doesn't care about Dumbledore's mission. She doesn't care about any of it. She can live in this life. She can be here and she doesn't care. It's not her problem and that is her choice to make, her decision, and everything else is not her responsibility. She's going to be good to Alphard, she's going to deserve him. She's going to care for him and nothing else. He deserves a good life and she deserves her own.

She stands, as the healers continue muttering over her, as they try to push her back down, as they threaten to call security. They become blurs of color as the world fades around her and she walks to Alphard's room, calmly, knowing nothing in the world could stop her now, she'd kill them if they tried and the truth of the statement doesn't frighten her. This is her life.

He cracks an eye open when she walks in and smiles. Her breath stutters, but his smile only strengthens her resolve. She leaves with him. She leaves it all behind.


	16. Would

"Why would I kill you?"

Alphard hesitates at Tom's words, his back, leaning against the white wall, goes stiff, his eyes, closed against the stars, open and settle on the far off lights in the sky, tired and weary, but creased at the corners from the happiness of times spent far away from Tom. The wedding party on the other side of the wall claps as the band finishes a song, the golden light encased within its borders only spilling in thin, wavering lines onto the dark meeting in the alleyway. A cigarette dangles between Alphard's fingers and Tom forces himself not to snuff out the burning measure invading him.

"Tom, are we really going to pretend?"

The voice is tired, ringing with years of pretending and tiptoeing and acting as if everything were fine, as if he weren't burning out, as if the ocean weren't scarring and drowning him as he tries to reach land.

Tom releases a sharp breath without so much meaning to and without so much caring that he had. He moves to lean against the wall a few feet from Alphard, staring up at the same stars, trying to recognize any string of constellations in them so that he can focus his mind and gather his thoughts. He always knows when Alphard lies to him, but this truth is new and unexpected and he doesn't know how to react. It might have been nice not to have a plan before, but not now, not now that this man has just married the woman he loves, the woman they love, the woman that shines brighter than all the stars and can drag him deeper than all the seas. He'd let her waters fill his lungs with glee if it meant she'd always be with him.

Tom laughs, a short and brittle sound. He lets his gaze drop to the broken pavement of the dirty alley, trying not to think of the light above him and behind him so this lie won't become tainted with the image of his Hermione, with the pain he knows the truth would, will, is, causing her.

Alphard is startled by the sound, its brittleness scratching at his psyche, at his will to remain calm, appear unaffected. His hand jumps and the cigarette drops. Tom notes his frown as he puts out the embers with his dark shoe, letting it all fade into the same darkness blanketing them.

"I can't kill you, Alphard."

This seems to startle him even more. He leans away from the wall and then seems to catch himself, not allowing his feet to take any more steps forward. His eyes shift back and forth, trying to understand why he hadn't denied the entire thing, why he hadn't just laughed it off, why he hadn't called him crazy, why he couldn't kill him, why he was still alive.

"Y- you can't kill me?"

His voice shook without his permission, but Alphard was too confused, too worried to think about it too much.

"I would've thought that would have been an easy enough sentence to understand, but I suppose you don't need to worry about being smart when you're rich."

Alphard's gaze drops away from Tom and shakes his head.

"No, I- I understood you, it's just-"

And now he looks right at him, worry and fear swirling through him, his lips staying parted, his hand clenching, likely in an effort not to reach for his wand, or a way for his body to mimic the security it offers because, logically, they both know that him reaching for it would be futile. Tom could kill him in a second, would if he needed to, but

"You can't?"

Tom pushes himself forward from the wall, turns to fully face Alphard, tilts his head to the side. The motion puts him closer to his love's husband and the man takes a step back, his self-hatred evident once he realizes the subconscious move he's taken.

"You may have married her, but that does not mean I have stopped caring for her. Hurting you hurts her."

 _Hurting her hurts me._

"I couldn't dream of doing that to her."

 _I couldn't dream of doing that to myself._

Alphard stares for a second, eyes wide and mouth agape with this easy release of information, with his safety and future so secured. He gathers himself. His eyes narrow, his mouth closes, his back straightens. He nods.

"Okay."

"Okay."

The door back to the party creaks open and there stands Hermione, the golden light from the wedding party haloing her, and her own radiance shining onto the men, her smile large at the sight of Alphard.

"My loveliest love, it's time for our first dance as man and wife."

She sways her hips and flutters her eyelashes at him exaggeratedly, clearly a joke they've had going and a moment they've been looking forward to.

The couple laughs together and suddenly Tom feels as if he'll demonstrate his lie sooner than planned, kill Alphard just in that moment and keep the gold for himself.

Alphard moves forward to take her arm and the movement forces her to notice Tom, in his dark robes and grey skin, standing next to her golden husband and their platinum world.

"Oh, Tom. I didn't realize you were out here."

Her back stiff, her smile flat and fake, her radiance dimmed. He hasn't been this close to her since the night he almost killed Alphard. He wishes he were close enough to smell her. She has to be using a different perfume for her wedding, but the scent would calm him all the same, just as it always had when she ran her fingers through his hair and he could smell her with his head against her chest, or when she whispered into his ear or when she just lay beside him, reading or breathing and _being_.

"Yes, we were just going in."

His pleasant tone, so carefully practiced through the years, is rough and choppy with waves struggling to break free, with waves desperate to hide the gold on the ocean floor, never to be found or touched by anything but his waters, gentle and heavy so far in.

She pretends not to notice, smiles, lets her boat rock in the waters and remains calm.

"Alright then, I hope you have a nice time tonight."

He can almost convince himself her smile was real, can almost be satisfied with the shine it gives, but he's being thrown glitter, fake and cheap and lingering long after it's no longer wanted, while Alphard gets to walk away with gems dripping in gold.

He nods and they go inside, cheers erupting almost immediately and a song he's never heard before but he's sure means a lot to them beginning to play soon afterwards.

Sweet tones of love have never inspired such feelings of loss.

Such feelings of anger.

Such feelings of desperation.

Of rage. Of end.

He doesn't bother to say his good-byes, might as well grant Hermione a day of happiness. Who knows how many days of end he'll force on her, she deserves these moments.

And, even as the thought of her pain makes him sick, makes it feel as if the waters of his soul were draining and convulsing, he goes home and plans.

He pursues his Death Eaters with renewed fervor, carefully reminding himself at every meeting to not call on Alphard, as he is on his honeymoon, enjoying his beautiful bride and crafting the most artful light.

Even with all the work he continues giving himself, with all the respect rich purebloods that would have been disgusted by him before now give him, it's still not enough. He needs more. He needs to be more powerful, more amazing, fantastic. He's spiraling waves when he wants to crash tsunamis.

He quits his job at Borgin & Burkes early on, the lowly position where he had gotten to learn so much, where his goals were re-envisioned. Hermione is and will forever be something he wants, maybe even needs, but there are so many things for him to do, to be.

Power is all there is. Power and the immortality required for it to exist forevermore. Even as he tortures people for information and travels to Albania for dark magic and fights and screams and schemes and plans and tires himself day in and day out with this big, fantastic goal, even when he finally manages to convince himself that this is all he needs, that this is all he's ever wanted, he can't stop thinking of her. Even though he knows that, if she were here, she would only hold him back, try to convince him that his goals are ridiculous, that his words are those of a psychopath, that all that he's ever strived for comes from his troubled youth, that he's a troubled person. And she would stop ranting at him and smile at him and look at him with her soft eyes and run her hands through his hair and kiss his neck and make him feel loved and he would listen to her. He'd say she was right. He would abandon it all to spend a humanity with her.

But Hermione's not here. He's wading through the cold of his heart and she's running through the heat of Alphard and Alphard's running through the heat of her.

Hermione's not here. Hermione's not going to be here for a long, long time. And he was fine before she came along. He was fine in his darkness, in his moonlight. It wasn't until she brought the sun into his life that he thought the burn was good, craved peeled skin and red marks. She is all his pain, a pain born of warmth and life. And he was fine in his moonlight, but it's impossible to forget the burn. He's doing his best. Sometimes he can really convince himself that his followers gossiping in the corner hadn't mentioned her name and pointed at him, thinking he wasn't paying attention. Sometimes he can really believe that the bakery on the road doesn't smell like her perfume every time he passes by. Sometimes he can stop himself from craning his neck to check if the bush of curly hair that had just turned a corner was her. But, sometimes he can't, so sometimes he has to hate himself and remember that she didn't pick him, that she didn't, doesn't love him. That, somewhere, she's whispering into Alphard's ear and he's making her laugh and they're in love, so very in love. Sometimes, he's too tired to try. But he keeps going, he wakes up, takes a breath, and tries again. It's all he can do and all he's ever wanted to avoid. He's a slave to her memory and dependent on her care, a care that's long since been ended.

But, he'll have her someday. She'll be his. Just not now, not this second. He just has to try for a little longer, live everyday, one at a time, live every second and try, try, try. There are other things to occupy this mind. There are other things to think about, other things to do. His power is a pastime until he has her. His power is his focus, will be gaining until she comes back to tell him to stop, when it will be too late, when she'll only have him to turn to, when he can relax and she will have to try.

They exist for each other, its just going to take a little more work to show that to her. And that's okay, he'll just keep trying until he doesn't have to anymore, until it's time to rest with his dream finally firmly in his grasp.


	17. Alive

"She's still alive."

Their lord does not ask questions. Is never doubtful. Is always as sure as he is cruel.

"Yes, my lord."

But they know to answer him anyways.

"Kill her."

There's a pause, a brief hesitation, and before their lord could call for magic to trap and torture, before he could so much as raise an eyebrow at the second's pause, the man bows his head and complies.

"Yes, my lord."

For they know the woman has done nothing wrong, even by their standards. They know their lord is worse today, less human, less true, less master of their cause and more slave to his emotions. And the latter is happening more and more often these days. You cannot hesitate, cannot even begin to doubt or question.

"Take yourself with her."

And this time there is no time between command and response, the man's head jumps up immediately, tears already gathering, tears that make their lord's mouth curl up into a snarl as they fall, his eyes alight with fury at the begging he's sure is about to come from the mouth of this sniveling servant.

But he bows his head again, even as the sobs begin to rack his body and his mouth moves to form the only words he knows, the only words he can say without the looming figure of pain and torture tearing at him, "Yes, my lord," but no sound comes out, only the quick, stuttered breaths his panic allows.

The woman is tortured within an inch of her life, the man's spells sinking into her body so haphazardly, so quickly, like a sewing machine running a thread through fabric, each new stitch coming so soon after the last, forcing the former to be forgotten so quickly, but changing the piece so completely, the blue of a spell still present when the red comes, her mottled flesh shining a broken purple. Her screams, after hours of listening, reverberate through the man's ears, the source so close but sounding like an echo, she wanting to be so far, he wanting to be so far, but the sound and the listener only coming back, again and again and again. Her blood spills across the dark stones beneath her and she lays in the sticky mess for an eternity, too weak and too afraid to move, her eyelids too heavy, her skin too pale, her hair matted, her lips split, and all the flesh that isn't open, that isn't spilling out around her, bruised a purplish-brown and this is how they keep her, this is how they leave her while they rest, take a drink, close their eyes and breath. Her eyes stay wide open and tears stream and her broken gasps ring through the tired room. And then they do it all over again.

But, through this woman's pain, through her will to live slowly dissipating, her defiant silence becoming pleas for help becoming cries begging for death, their lord watches with glee, his eyes bright and his mouth twisted high.

It is a terrifying, disorienting sight and when her body finally gives in, when the blood loss becomes too much, when her brain can no longer hold her together and it must shut down, must allow her to sink, when she's finally welcomed into the warm embrace of death, they move onto the man. It's his turn. They drag his body forward, rip the wand from his hand, his sobs already escaping him, his face crimson as pleas slip from his mouth and no breath comes in, the words falling too quickly and too heavily to make out and Hermione has to step out of the memory, the voice of her husband greeting her promptly.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this. Just until the baby is born."

And there is Alphard, rubbing her back as her eyes stare blankly ahead, still trying to process what she had just seen, her hands absentmindedly rubbing at her stomach and he looking at her with the utmost care and concern as he speaks his words.

She pulls herself out of her trance, because she knows she has to show him she's okay if he's ever going to let her go through with this, if he'll believe it's true and that this isn't too much stress to put on her, or to put on their baby.

She smiles at him, letting as much warmth as she can muster to radiate through it, "It's okay. I'm okay."

She's had to lie to him a lot more often since they started doing this, since they started sifting through Alphard's memories of meetings so that she can stay informed but keep herself far away from that monster and his dark reaches. At least until the baby is born. Before the fog of the memory has even fully cleared, Hermione thanks the gods for the blessing upon her womb, taking hold of the first moment that she can start pretending to forget what she saw, start remembering how very blessed she is that what she retains is only an impression and she did not really have to be there. She fears for Alphard, even as he continuously assures her that he's fine. She feels him shake in the night, cry in the restroom behind a locked door, catches him staring forward blankly at the dinner table, his eyes ringed with the the darkness playing in them, what she's sure he's forced to see every time he's left with the black behind his eyelids. She's so very blessed to have him, to be carrying his child, to not have to be at the meetings, trembling under the gaze of a man she had thought she could make feel.

She tells him she loves him and, unlike her being okay, unlike her being happy, her feeling safe, being ready and willing to face anything this life may throw at her, her feelings for him may actually be true. She believes it more than anything when he smiles brightly at her as soon as the words come out of her mouth. It isn't the first time she's said it, but every time she does he smiles at her as if the sun had just told him it shines only for him. It's as if, just for a second, the weight of the world isn't quite so heavy, the peak of their goals not quite so insurmountable, as if he can truly believe that someday, far from now, but someday, he can actually so much as hope to be happy, really, truly happy. A happiness unbounded by time and space, a happiness brightened by the normalcy he now craves, by the certainty of life, of calm, of peace that the end of this mission has been assured to bring, the pearly gates and warm lights that they have formed for the end of this in their minds. They have made this mission's end's their ascension to heaven, because it is all so much more unbearable if they cannot allow themselves to believe that it will all be better when it ends. They don't think about the trauma that will stay with them, how they'll still jump at loud sounds, still look around anxiously whenever anyone mentions his name, his oh so common name. But, Hermione knows Alphard deserves these small moments of happiness and more, so she tries to say it as often as she can muster, as often as she can say it without feeling guilty, knowing how much she still thinks of Tom as Tom and not as Voldemort, how often she thinks of Tom in the same sentence as _love._ She says it as much as she can think of Alphard without immediately feeling dread build up in the pit of her stomach because she knows how bad she is for him, to him, with him. She doesn't get to say it very often. But she so wishes she could, wishes she could give him everything he's given her and more.

He makes some jokes, trying to banish the image of that woman's pain from her mind, the echoes of the man's whimpers. He knows the task is impossible because this is his memory and every time he closes his eyes he can see her skin splitting, bruises blossoming up and down her legs, the tufts of hair, bloodied and flaked with skin that she pulled out every time a new round of crucio was expelled onto her, and then the man's eyes as he knows that everything that he did to the woman is about to be done to him.

Hermione smiles at him, a small, almost nonexistent smile. They both know the jokes don't do much, but their relationship has always been built on their pain. What more can they do but try and smile, and try and believe that it looks even a little real, that it could reasonably be even a little real.

He kisses her forehead and his eyes droop, the grief clouding them reaching new depths, darker shadows swimming just beneath the surface, biding their time until they could break through and break him.

She knows it is only because of her that he is like this and she wishes it could have been any other way. She wishes she could have been just a little stronger and shouldered the pain, been a little more resilient and not had to lean on him, not have to stab him with her knobby roughness every time they touched or spoke. She wishes she could have brought him joy, could have done for him what he does for her, but she is not strong enough, could not do this alone, could not let him only be a mindless, unaffected pawn, had to bring him into her heart and let him breath in the darkness, become a true part of this mess.

He makes dinner and as they sit and eat, as she laughs at his corny jokes, as he tells her how beautiful her eyes are, as she blushes and reaches a hand out to him, as they wash the dishes together, as he kisses her nose and she kisses his lips, as his face fills with joy when he rubs her growing stomach, as they go to bed together, warmth settling in their stomachs and hearts, they seem almost happy. Almost normal. She can almost convince herself she didn't think of Tom, isn't thinking of Tom, even later when he clumsily places a wet kiss on her cheek as he climbs off of her. She tries to convince herself that his sweaty arm wrapping around her middle as he snuggles into her neck and falls asleep, his breath hot and sticky, isn't making her think of Tom's cool hands still exploring her long after they were done. Of his cool breath chilling her shoulder, of his warm, whispered words heating her face as they fell in her ear.

Alphard mentions his sister is visiting tomorrow and she groans and he laughs and she thinks about how easy this life would've been. If Tom weren't a factor, she could go on pretending to be friends with his sister and dreading every moment up to her arrival, she could go on loving Alphard, welcoming their growing family, throwing the foam from washing dishes at each other and rubbing it away when they halt their laughing long enough to kiss again and again. This life would've been easy, would've been so simple, so lovely, but it is not her life. She was destined for bigger things, for more painful things, for the life of a war hero, for the life of a martyr, for the life of a bringer of pain and suffering, an ender of pain and suffering. She was not meant to be just a wife, a lovely, laughing wife with her lovely, laughing husband by her side. Because her life has Tom. Her life is tinged with the notion of blood purity and genocide, tinged with the fact that she might be in love with a murderer. Tinged with the fact that she hates Alphard's sister, not for her incessant babbling but for the fact that, had she known Hermione's true blood, would launch a million curses at her in an instant for tainting the precious blood line. Her life is tinged with a mystical predisposition for it not to be easy, for it to be anything but. And it is anything but, anything but easy, anything but happy, anything but alive.


End file.
